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V   1       ft 

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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
THE  HEARST  CORPORATION 


•■TO* 


Hearst  Memorial  Libra 


Case  No Shelf  %J&~JJP 

Drawer  No Inventory  No.  Z*T  7  V /g  j 


•NOT  TO  »E  REMOVED  FROM  LIBRA** 

WITHOUT  PROPER  AUTHORITY.'* 

ftOKKTY  OF  HEARST  COtP, 


REST   HARROW 

A  COMEDY  OF  RESOLUTION 


MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW   YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA    •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


REST    HARROW 


A  COMEDY  OF  RESOLUTION 


BY 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 


*  Rest  Harrow  grows  in  any  toil.  .  .  .  The  seed  may 
be  sown  as  soon  as  ripe,  in  warm,  sheltered  spots  out  of 
doors.  ...  It  is  a  British  plant.' — Weathers. 


MACMILLAN   AND    CO.,   LIMITED 

ST.  MARTIN'S    STREET,  LONDON 

1910 


THI    KAAAICTHI 


CONTENTS 
BOOK   I 

?AGE 

Of    the    Nature    of    a    Prologue,    dealing   with    a 

bruised  Philosopher  in   Retirement        .  .  I 

BOOK   II 

Sanchia  at  Wanless  Hall      .  .  .  •       43 

BOOK    III 

Interlude  of  the  recluse  Philosopher  .  .185 

BOOK    IV 

Sanchia  in  London     .....     227 

BOOK   V 

Of    the     Nature    of    an     Epilogue,    dealing    with 

Despoina  .  .  .  .  .  «353 


Vll 


BOOK  I 

OF  THE  NATURE  OF  A  PROLOGUE,  DEAL- 
ING WITH  A  BRUISED  PHILOSOPHER 
IN  RETIREMENT 


I 


An  observant  traveller,  homing  to  England  by 
the  Ostend- Dover  packet  in  the  April  of  some 
five  years  ago,  relished  the  vagaries  of  a  curious 
couple  who  arrived  by  a  later  train,  and  proved  to 
be  both  of  his  acquaintance.  He  had  happened 
to  be  early  aboard,  and  saw  them  come  on.  They 
were  a  lady  of  some  personal  attraction,  comfortably 
furred,  who,  descending  from  a  first-class  carriage, 
was  met  by  a  man  from  a  third-class,  bare-headed, 
free  in  the  neck,  loosely  clad  in  grey  flannel 
trousers  which  flapped  about  his  thin  legs  in  the 
sea-breeze,  a  white  sweater  with  a  rolling  collar, 
and  a  pair  of  sandals  upon  brown  and  sinewy  feet 
uncovered  by  socks  :  these  two.  The  man's 
garniture  was  extraordinary,  but  himself  no  less 
so.  He  had  a  lean  and  deeply  bronzed  face, 
hatchet -shaped  like  a  Hindoo's.  You  looked 
instinctively  for  rings  in  his  ears.  His  moustache 
was  black  and  sinuous,  outlining  his  mouth  rather 
than  hiding  it.  His  hair,  densely  black,  was 
longish  and  perfectly  straight.  His  eyes  were 
far-sighted  and  unblinking  ;  he  smiled  always,  but 
furtively,  as  if  the  world  at  large  amused  him, 
but  must  never  know  it.     He  seemed  to  observe 


REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


everything,  except  the  fact  that  everybody  observed 
himself. 

To  have  once  seen  such  a  man  must  have  pro- 
vided for  his  recollection  ;  and  yet  our  traveller,  who 
was  young  and  debonnaire^  though  not  so  young  as 
he  seemed,  first  recognised  the  lady.  *  Mrs.  Germain, 
by  George  !  '  This  to  himself,  but  aloud,  *  Now, 
where's  she  been  all  this  time  ? '  The  frown  which 
began  to  settle  about  his  discerning  eyes  speedily 
dissolved  in  wonder  as  they  encountered  the  strange 
creature  in  the  lady's  company.  He  stared,  he 
gaped,  then  slapped  his  thigh.  '  Jack  Senhouse  ! 
That's  the  man.  God  of  battles,  what  a  start ! 
Now,  what  on  earth  is  Jack  Senhouse  doing, 
playing  courier  to  Mrs.  Germain  ? ' 

That  was  precisely  the  employment.  His  man 
had  handed  the  lady  out  of  her  compartment, 
entered  it  when  she  left  it,  and  was  possessing 
himself  of  her  littered  vestiges  while  these  specula- 
tions were  afloat.  Dressing-case,  tea-basket,  um- 
brellas, rugs,  and  what  not,  he  filled  his  arms  with 
them,  handed  them  over  to  expectant  porters, 
then  smilingly  showed  their  proprietress  the 
carriage  ridded.  He  led  the  way  to  the  steamer, 
deposited  his  burdens  and  saw  to  the  bestowal  of 
others,  fetched  a  chair,  wrapped  her  in  rugs,  found 
her  book,  indicated  her  whereabouts  to  a  mariner 
in  case  of  need.  All  this  leisurely  done,  in  the 
way  of  a  man  who  has  privilege  and  duty  for  his 
warrants.  Inquiring  then,  with  an  engaging  lift 
of  the  eyebrows,  whether  she  was  perfectly  com- 
fortable, and  receiving  with  a  pleasant  nod  her 
answering  nod  of  thanks,  he  left  her  and  returned 


i  CHEVENIX  HAILS  HIM  5 

to  the  train.  Tracked  through  the  crowd,  and 
easily  by  his  height,  bare  head,  and  leisurely 
motions,  he  was  next  seen  shouldering  a  canvas 
bag  on  his  way  back  to  the  boat.  Jack's  belong- 
ings, his  bag  of  tricks  ;  Jack  all  over,  the  same 
inexhaustible  Jack !  It  was  delightful  to  our 
traveller  to  find  Jack  Senhouse  thus  verifying 
himself  at  every  turn.  He  was  for  the  steerage, 
it  appears — and  of  course  he  was  ! — where  depressed 
foreigners  share  with  bicycles,  motor  cars,  and 
newly  boiled  pigs  the  amenities  of  economical 
travel.  In  this  malodorous  and  slippery  well  his 
interested  friend  saw  him  sit  down  upon  his  bundle, 
roll  a  cigarette,  and  fall  into  easy  conversation 
with  an  Italian  voyager  who,  having  shaved,  was 
now  putting  on  a  clean  collar  and  a  tartan  necktie. 

The  traveller,  Mr.  William  Chevenix,  who  had 
watched  him  so  long,  a  well-dressed  and  cheerful 
Englishman  of  some  five-and-thirty  summers,  with 
round  eyes  in  a  round  and  rosy  face,  now  assuring 
himself  that  he  would  be  damned  if  he  didn't  have 
it  out  with  the  chap,  descended  the  companion, 
picked  his  way  through  the  steerage,  and  ap- 
proached the  seated  philosopher.  He  saw  that 
he  was  known,  and  immediately.  Nothing  escaped 
Senhouse. 

'  How  d'ye  do,  how  d'ye  do  ? '  He  held  out 
his  hand.  Senhouse  rose  and  grasped  it.  The 
Italian  took  off  his  hat,  and  strolled  away. 

*  I'm  very  well,  thanks,'  he  said.  ■  Have  you 
noticed  those  shores  beyond  the  canal  ?  Samphire 
there  just  as  we  have  it  at  home.  Leagues  of 
samphire.' 


6  REST  HARROW  book 

The  younger  man  looked  in  the  direction  indi- 
cated cheerfully  and  blankly.  *  "  The  samphire 
by  the  ocean's  brim,"  '  he  said  lightly.  ■  I  attach 
no  importance  to  it  whatever,  but  it's  very  like 
you  to  lift  one  into  your  privacy  at  a  moment's 
notice.  I'm  all  for  the  formalities  myself,  so  I 
observe  that  I  haven't  seen  you  for  years.  Years  ! 
Not  since — why,  it  must  be  eighteen.' 

*  It's  precisely  eight,'  said  Senhouse,  '  and  I've 
been  abroad  for  four  of  them.' 

His  friend  inspected  him  with  candid  interest. 
1  At  your  old  games,  I  take  it.  You've  filled 
England  with  hardy  perennials  and  now  you're 
starting  on  Europe.  Great  field  for  you.  You'll 
want  a  pretty  big  trowel,  though.  A  wheelbarrow 
might  be  handy,  I  should  have  said.' 

Senhouse  fired.  '  I've  been  planting  the  Black 
Forest,  you  see.  Great  games.  They  gave  me  a 
free  hand,  and  ten  thousand  marks  a  year  to  spend. 
I've  done  some  rather  showy  things.  Now  I  want 
to  go  to  Tibet.' 

The  other's  attention  had  wandered.  '  I  saw 
you  come  on  board,'  he  said.  '  I  watched  you 
play  the  Squire  of  Dames  to  a  rather  pretty  woman 
whom  I  happen  to  know.  She  was  a  Mrs.  Germain 
in  those  days.' 

1  She  still  calls  herself  so,'  Senhouse  said.  He 
was  staring  straight  before  him  out  to  sea.  The 
steamer  was  under  way. 

*  Married  a  queer  old  file  in  Berkshire,  who  died 
worth  a  plum.  Goodish  time  ago.  They  called 
him  Fowls,  or  Fowls  of  the  Air.  So  she's  still  a 
widow,  eh  ? ' 


i        HE  FENCES  WITH  CHEVENIX        7 

Senhouse  nodded.  *  She's  his  widow.'  Then 
he  asked,  *  You  know  her  ?  You  might  go  and 
amuse  her.  I  can't,  because  of  these  bonds.'  He 
exhibited  his  sockless  feet  with  a  cheerful  grin. 

'Oh,  I  shall,  you  know,'  he  was  assured. 
'You're  not  dressy  enough  for  Mrs.  Germain. 
She'd  never  stand  it.' 

1  She  doesn't,'  said  Senhouse.  '  She  dislikes  a 
fuss,  and  thinks  me  rather  remarkable.' 

'Well,'  said  the  other,  'I  think  she's  right. 
You  always  were  a  conspicuous  beggar.  Now 
look  at  me.     Think  I'll  do  ? ' 

Senhouse  peered  at  him.  '  I  think  you  are 
exactly  what  she  wants  just  now,'  he  said.  '  Go 
in  and  approve  yourself,  Chevenix.' 

Mr.  Chevenix,  the  spick  and  span,  had  some- 
thing on  his  mind,  however,  which  he  did  not 
know  how  to  put.  He  continued  to  reflect  upon 
Mrs.  Germain,  but  only  by  way  of  marking  time. 
'  She  used  to  be  very  good  fun  in  my  young  days. 
And  she  made  things  spin  in  Berkshire,  they  tell 
me.  I  know  she  did  in  London — while  it  lasted. 
What's  she  doing?  There  was  a  chap  called 
Duplessis,  I  remember.' 

'There  still  is,'  Senhouse  said,  but  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  chalk  No  Thoroughfare  across  the 
field.  Chevenix  perceived  this  rather  late  in  the 
day,  and  ended  his  ruminations  in  a  whistle.  '  She 
kept  him  dangling — '  he  had  begun.  Instead  of 
pursuing,  he  said  abruptly,  '  I  say,  you  remember 
Sancie  Percival,  of  course.' 

A  change  came  over  Senhouse's  aspect  which  a 
close  observer  might  have  noticed.     He  was  very 


8  REST  HARROW  book 

quiet,  hardly  moved  ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  listen- 
ing with  all  his  senses,  listening  with  every  pore  of 
his  skin.  ■  Yes,'  he  said,  slowly.  c  Yes,  I  do  ;  I'm 
not  likely  to  forget  her.  She  was  my  dearest  friend, 
and  is  so  still,  I  hope.' 

The  solemnity  of  his  intended  message  clouded 
Mr.  Chevenix's  candid  brow.  *  She's  still  at  Wan- 
less,  you  know.' 

Senhouse  set  a  watch  upon  himself.  'No 
doubt  she  is,'  he  said.     *  She's  well  ? ' 

The  other  probed  him.  '  She's  never  made 
it  up  with  her  people.  I  think  she  feels  it  nowa- 
days.' 

Senhouse  asked  sharply,  '  Where's  Ingram  ? ' 

1  Ingram,'  said  Chevenix,  *  is  just  off  for  a  trip. 
He's  to  be  abroad  for  a  year.     India.' 

Senhouse  shivered.     c  Alone  ? ' 

'  Well,  without  her,  anyhow.  He  always  was  a 
casual  beggar,  was  Neville.'  He  could  see  now  that 
he  was  making  a  hit.  *  Got  old  Senhouse  where 
he  lives,'  he  told  himself,  and  then  continued. 
*  Fact  is,  I've  been  out  with  him  as  far  as 
Brindisi.  He  asked  me  to.  I  had  nothing  to 
do.  But  I  want  to  see  Sancie  Percival  again. 
I  was  awfully  fond  of  her — of  the  whole  lot  of 
them.'  He  reflected,  as  a  man  might  deliberate 
upon  familiar  things,  and  discover  them  to  be 
wonders.  *  What  a  family  they  were,  by  Jove  ! 
Five — of — the — loveliest  girls  a  man  could 
meet  with.  Melusine,  what  a  girl  she  was ! 
Married  Tubby  Scales — fat  chap  with  a  cigar. 
Vicky,  now.  How  about  Vicky  ?  She  was  my 
chum,   you    know.      She's    married,   too.      Chap 


BEST  FRIEND  OR  WORST  9 

called  Sinclair — in  the  Guides.  But  Sancie  beat 
them  all  in  her  quiet  way.     A  still  water — what  ? ' 

Senhouse,  his  chin  clasped  in  his  bony  hands, 
contemplated  the  sea.  His  face  was  drawn  and 
stern.  There  was  a  queer  twitching  of  the  cheek- 
bones. ■  Got  him,  by  Jove  ! '  said  Mr.  Chevenix 
to  himself,  and  pushed  on.  *  I  say,  I  wish  you'd 
go  and  see  her/  he  said. 

Senhouse  got  up  and  leaned  over  the  bulwarks. 
He  was  plainly  disturbed.  Chevenix  waited  for 
him  nervously,  but  got  nothing. 

Then  he  said,  'The  fact  is,  Senhouse,  I  think 
that  you  should  go.  You  were  the  best  friend 
she  ever  had/  Senhouse  turned  him  then  a  tragic 
face. 

*  No,  I  wasn't,'  he  said.  '  I  think  I  was  the 
worst.' 

Chevenix  blinked.  *  I  know  what  you  mean. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  and  your  confounded 
theories,  you  imply  that  she  — ' 

*  I  don't  know  — '  Senhouse  began.  ■  God 
only  knows  what  she  might  have  done.  She  was 
not  of  our  sort,  you  know.  I  always  said  that  she 
was  unhuman.' 

1  That's  the  last  thing  she  was,'  said  Chevenix, 
neatly.     Senhouse  scorned  him. 

1  You  don't  know  anything  about  it,'  he  said. 
'  What  are  the  doings  of  this  silly  world,  of  our 
makeshift  appearances,  to  the  essentials  ?  Antics — 
filling  up  time  !  You  speak  as  if  she  gave  Ingram 
everything,  and  lost  it.  She  did,  but  he  never 
knew  it — so  never  had  it.  Ingram  had  what  he 
was  fitted  to  receive.     Her  impulse,  her  impulsion 


io  REST  HARROW  book 

were  divine.  She  has  lost  nothing — and  he  has 
gained  nothing.' 

'  If  you  talk  philosophy  I'm  done,'  cried  Mr. 
Chevenix.  '  Well,  I  say  to  you,  my  boy,  Go  and 
see  her.  She's  so  far  human  that  she's  got  a 
tongue,  and  likes  to  wag  it,  I  suppose.  I  don't 
say  that  there's  trouble,  and  I  don't  say  there's 
not.  But  there  are  the  makings  of  it.  She's 
alone,  and  may  be  moped.  I  don't  know.  You'd 
better  judge  for  yourself.' 

Senhouse,  trembling  from  his  recent  fire,  turned 
away  his  face.  '  I  don't  know  that  I  dare.  If  she's 
unhappy,  I  shall  be  in  the  worst  place  I  ever  was  in 
in  my  life.      I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.' 

'  That's  the  first  time  you  ever  said  that,  I'll  go 
bail,'  Chevenix  interrupted  him.  But  Senhouse  did 
not  hear  him. 

1  I  did  everything  I  could  at  the  time.  I  nearly 
made  her  quarrel  with  me — I  dared  do  that.  I 
went  up  to  Wanless  and  saw  Ingram.  I  hated 
the  fellow,  I  disapproved  of  him,  feared  him. 
He  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  could  have 
tackled  with  a  view  to  redemption.  He  was  almost 
hopelessly  bad,  according  to  my  view  of  things. 
Fed  by  slaves  from  the  cradle,  hag-ridden  by  his 
vices  ;  a  purple  young  bully,  a  product  of  filthy 
sloth,  scabbed  with  privilege.  I  saw  just  how 
things  were.  She  pitied  him,  and  thought  it  was 
her  business  to  save  him.  She  did  nobly.  She 
gave  herself  for  pity  ;  and  if  she  mistook  that 
for  love,  the  splendid  generosity  of  her  is  enough 
to  take  the  breath  away.  The  world  ought  to 
have    gone    down    on    its   knees    to    her — but    it 


i  HE  CONFESSES  n 

picked  up  its  skirts  for  fear  she  might  touch 
them.  What  a  country  !  What  a  race  !  Well, 
feeling  towards  her  as  I  did,  and  loathing  him,  I 
urged  him  to  marry  her — to  make  her  his  property 
for  life.  Dead  against  my  conviction,  mind  you, 
but  what  else  could  I  do  ?  God  help  me,  I  played 
the  renegade  to  what  I  sincerely  believed.  I 
couldn't  see  her  done  to  death  by  a  world  of 
satyrs/ 

*  Of  course  you  couldn't,  my  dear  man,'  cried 
Chevenix.  *  Girls  of  her  sort  must  be  married, 
you  know.' 

1 1  don't  know  anything  of  the  kind,'  replied 
Senhouse,  fiercely  ;  ■  but  I  loved  her.  You  may 
put  it  that  I  funked.     I  did — and  to  no  purpose.' 

*  If  you  were  to  see  her  now,'  Chevenix  put  in, 
'  you  could  do  some  good.  She'll  be  pretty  lonely 
up  there.'     Senhouse  got  up. 

1  I'll  see  her,'  he  said.     *  Whatever  happens.' 

*  Right,'  said  Chevenix.  '  That's  a  good  man. 
That's  what  I  wanted  of  you.  I'll  tell  her  that 
you're  coming.  Now  I'm  going  to  do  the  civil 
to  Mrs.  Germain.' 

Senhouse  had  turned  away,  and  was  leaning 
over  the  bulwarks,  lost  in  his  thoughts.  He 
remained  there  until  the  passage  was  over. 

Mr.  Chevenix,  having  approached  the  lady 
with  all  forms  observed,  made  himself  happy  in 
her  company,  as,  indeed,  he  did  in  all.  ■  Now 
this  is  very  jolly,  Mrs.  Germain,  I  must  say.  I'm 
a  companionable  beggar,  I  believe  ;  and  here  I  was 
in  a  ship  where  I  didn't  know  a  living  soul  until 
I  met  you  and  Senhouse.     Didn't  even  know  that 


12  REST  HARROW  book 

you  knew  Senhouse.  Queer  fish,  eh?  Oh,  the 
queerest  fish  in  the  sea !  But  you  know  all  that, 
of  course.' 

Mrs.  Germain,  a  brunette  with  the  power  of 
glowing,  coloured  becomingly,  and  veiled  her  fine 
eyes  with  somewhat  heavy  and  heavily-fringed 
eyelids.  '  Oh,  yes,'  she  said,  '  I  have  known  him 
for  a  long  time/ 

1  Met  him  abroad,  I  suppose — tinkering  round, 
as  he  does.  The  everlasting  loafer,  artist,  tinker, 
poet,  gardener.  'Pon  my  soul,  he's  like  the 
game  we  used  to  do  with  cherry-stones  round 
the  pudding  plate.  Don't  you  know?  Soldier, 
sailor,  tinker,  tailor,  and  all  the  rest.  He's  all 
those  things,  and  has  two  pair  of  bags  to  his  name, 
and  lives  in  a  cart,  and's  a  gentleman.  Not  a 
doubt  about  that,  mind  you,  Mrs.  Germain.' 

She  smiled  upon  him  kindly.  '  None  at  all,' 
she  said.     '  I  like  him  extremely.' 

1  You  would,  you  know,'  said  Chevenix,  his 
tones  rich  in  sympathy.  '  All  women  do.  You 
couldn't  help  it.  You've  got  such  a  kind  heart. 
All  women  have.  Now,  I've  known  Senhouse 
himself  five  or  six  years,  but  I've  known  about 
him  for  at  least  eight.  I  used  to  hear  about  him 
from  morn  to  dewy  eve,  once  upon  a  time,  from 
one — of — the — loveliest  and  most  charming  girls 
you  ever  met  in  your  life.  Did  you  know  her  ? 
A  Miss  Percival — Sanchia  Percival.  We  used  to 
call  her  Sancie.  Thought  you  might  have  met 
her,  perhaps.  No  ?  Well,  this  chap  Senhouse 
would  have  gone  through  the  fire  for  her.  He 
would    have  said    his  prayers  to   her.     Did    you 


i  IDENTITIES  REVEALED  13 

ever  see  his  poems  about  her  ?  My  word  !  He 
published  'em  after  the  row,  you  know.  He  as 
good  as  identified  her  with — well,  we  won't 
mention  names,  Mrs.  Germain,  but  he  identified 
her  with  a  certain  holy  lady  not  a  hundred  miles 
from  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  Blasphemous  old 
chap — he  did,  though.' 

Mrs.  Germain,  toying  with  her  scent-bottle, 
was  interested.  ■  I  never  heard  him  speak  about 
a  Miss  Percival,'  she  said.  She  used  a  careless 
tone,  but  her  flickering  eyelids  betrayed  her. 

1  You  wouldn't,  you  know,'  he  told  her  with 
the  same  sympathetic  earnestness.  ■  There  was 
too  much  of  a  row.  He  was  cut  all  to  pieces. 
I  thought  he'd  go  under  ;  but  he's  not  that  sort. 
Who  called  somebody — some  political  johnny — 
the  Sea-green  Incorruptible  ?  Oh,  ask  me  another ! 
You  might  call  old  Senhouse  the  Green-tea  Irre- 
pressible ;  for  that  was  his  drink  (to  keep  himself 
awake  all  night,  writin'  poems),  and  there  never 
was  a  cork  that  would  hold  him  down — not  even 
Sancie  Percival.  No,  no,  out  he  must  come — 
fizzling.' 

*  I  see,'  said  Mrs.  Germain,  still  looking  at  her 
fingers  in  her  lap.  *  I'm  very  much  interested. 
You  mean  that  he  was  very  much — that  he  paid 
her  a  great  deal  of  attention  ? ' 

Chevenix  stared  roundly  about  him.  '  Atten- 
tion !  Oh,  heavens !  Why,  three  of  his  letters 
to  her  would  fill  The  Times  for  a  week — and  he 
kept  it  up  for  years  !  She  used  to  get  three  a 
week — budgets  !  blue-books  !  For  simple  years  ! 
Attentions  ! '     He  shook  his  head.     '  The  word's 


i4  REST  HARROW  book 

no  good.  He  paid  nobody  anything  at  all  when 
she  was  in  the  same  county.  He  used  to  sit 
listening  to  her  thrilling  the  waves  of  air.  He 
used  to  hear  her  voice  in  the  wind — and  when  it 
changed,  he  used  to  fire  off*  his  answers ! ' 

Mrs.  Germain  laughed — whether  at  Chevenix 
or  his  preposterous  hero  is  not  to  be  known. 
c  You  are  rather  absurd/  she  said.  '  Mr.  Senhouse 
never  gave  me  the  idea  of  that  sort  of  person. 
Why  did  they  never — ? ' 

Chevenix  narrowed  his  eyes  to  the  merest  slats. 
1  Marry  ? '  he  said,  in  an  awed  whisper,  f  Is  that 
what  you  mean  ? ' 

Mrs.  Germain  showed  him  her  soft  brown 
orbs,  which  for  two  seasons  had  been  said  to  be 
the  finest  pair  of  dark  eyes  in  London.  '  Yes/ 
she  said,  '  I  do  mean  that.  How  clever  of  you 
to  guess  ! ' 

Chevenix  bowed  to  her.  '  Not  at  all/  he  said. 
*  I'm  quite  good  at  that  kind  of  thing.  You  have 
to  be,  if  you  knock  about.  Besides,  that's  the 
whole  point.  Bless  you !  He  would  just  as 
soon  have  married  Diana  of  the  Ephesians.  He 
said  so.  I  heard  him.  He  would  have  thought 
it  an  insult  to  hint  at  it.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that 
he  was  a  poet  ?  ' 

*  Yes,'  the  lady  said  quickly.  *  You  did.  But 
I  suppose  poets  occasionally  marry.' 

*  Not  that  sort,'  Chevenix  pronounced,  with  a 
shake  of  the  head.  '  At  least,  they  don't  marry 
the  right  person.  They  never  do.  Or  there  are 
two  or  three  persons.  Look  at  Shelley.  Look  at 
Dante.     I  happen  to  know  all  about  both  of  'em. 


i  HOW  TO  MAKE  TROUBLE  15 

Senhouse  drank  'em  up — and  gave  'em  out  like 
steam.  He  thought  no  end  of  Dante  and  Shelley. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  didn't  believe  in  marriage, 
as  a  game — as  a  kind  of  institution,  you  know. 
He  thought  it  devilish  wrong — and  said  so — and 
that's  where  the  trouble  was.  Marry  Sancie  !  I 
wish  to  heaven  he  had.  There'd  have  been  no 
trouble  at  all.  They  were  made  for  each  other. 
She  loved  his  fun — and  was  easy  with  him,  you 
see.  She  was  queerish,  too — a  shy  young  bird  ; 
but  she  was  quite  at  home  with  him.  No,  no. 
The  trouble  really  began  with  him  putting  her 
out  of  conceit  with  marriage.  And  then  she 
didn't  care  for  him  in  that  sort  of  way,  then. 
And  then — well,  the  less  said  the  better.' 

*  Oh,'  said  Mrs.  Germain,  absorbed  by  the 
devolutions  of  the  tale.     ■  Oh  ! ' 

* "  Oh  "  's  the  sort  of  expression  one  used  at 
the  time,'  said  Chevenix.  *  There  wasn't  much  else 
to  be  said.  It  was  a  holy  row.'  He  mused,  he 
brooded,  and  said  no  more.  Luckily  for  him,  he 
discovered  Dover  at  hand,  and  escaped.  Mrs. 
Germain  was  put  into  a  first-class  carriage  by  two 
attendant  squires,  provided  with  tea  and  a  foot- 
warmer  ;  and  then  Chevenix  bowed  himself  away 
and  Senhouse  disappeared.  She  had  a  novel  on 
her  knees,  but  read  little.  She  looked  out  of 
window,  frowning  and  biting  her  red  lip.  When 
she  reached  Victoria  she  tightened  both  lips,  and 
you  saw  that,  so  compressed,  they  made  a  thin 
red  line  straight  above  a  square  chin.  Her  charm 
and  favour  both  lay,  you  then  discovered,  in 
expression. 


1 6  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


Senhouse,  hatless  and  loose-limbed,  stood  at  the 
door  to  help  her  out.  She  accepted  his  services, 
and  was  put  into  a  cab. 

<  Where's  he  to  take  you  ? '  he  asked  her 
pleasantly. 

She  said  at  once,  *  To  Brown's  Hotel.'  Then, 
before  she  got  in,  with  a  hand,  unperceived  by  the 
general,  just  touching  his  arm,  '  Jack,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you,  but  not  to-night.  Will  you  come 
in  the  morning,  please?  I  am  rather  tired,  and 
shall  dine  early  and  go  to  bed.  Is  my  maid  here  ?  ' 
She  looked  about.  *  Oh,  I  suppose  she's  seeing  to 
the  luggage.  You  might  find  her,  and  tell  her 
where  to  come  to.' 

Senhouse  smiled  and  nodded.  *  Certainly.  All 
these  things  shall  be  done.  Anything  else  before 
you  go  off? ' 

She  hesitated  for  a  minute,  then  said,  '  Yes, 
there  is  one  more  thing.  You  mustn't  come  to 
Brown's  like  that.  You  must  put  on  ordinary 
things.' 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  then  laughed — throwing 
his  head  up.  '  Wonderful  lady !  Wherewithal 
shall  I  be  clothed?  Do  you  really  think  these 
things  matter  ? ' 

She  was  firm.  '  I  really  do.  I  hope  you  will 
be  kind  enough  to — to — please  me.' 

He  looked  very  kindly  at  her.  *  My  dear,' 
he  said,  c  of  course  I  shall.  Be  quite  easy  about 
it.'     He  held  out  his  hand.     'Good  night,  Mary.' 

She  took  it,  but  didn't  meet  his  look.  '  Good 
night,'  she  said,  and  drove  away  without  another 
signal. 


HE  STROLLS  OUT  17 

Senhouse,  shouldering  his  bundle,  found  the 
lady's  maid,  and  gave  her  her  sailing  orders.  His 
manner  to  her  was  exactly  that  which  he  had 
shown  to  the  mistress,  easy,  simple,  and  good- 
humoured.  Leaving  her,  he  went  a  leisurely  way 
through  the  press,  and  took  a  tram-car  from  the 
corner  of  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road  in  the  direction  of 
Battersea. 


II 

Sen  house,  after  a  night  of  solitary  musing  upon 
certain  waste  places  known  best  to  outlanders, 
walked  up  Saint  James's  Street  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  talking  lightly  and  fiercely  to  him- 
self. A  long  life  of  loneliness  had  given  him  that 
habit  incurably.  Discovering  the  hour  by  a  clock 
in  Piccadilly,  he  realised  that  it  was  too  early  to 
wait  upon  Mrs.  Germain  in  Albemarle  Street,  so 
continued  his  way  up  the  empty  hill,  entered  the 
Park,  and  flung  himself  upon  the  turf  under  the 
elms.  Other  guests  were  harboured  by  that 
hospitable  sward,  shambling,  downcast  lice  of  the 
town.  These,  having  shuffled  thither,  dropped, 
huddled  and  slept.  His  way  was  not  theirs  :  to 
him  the  open  space  was  his  domain.  He  ranged 
the  streets,  one  saw,  as  if  they  had  been  the  South 
Downs,  with  the  long  stride  and  sensitive  tread  of 
a  man  who  reckons  with  inequalities  of  footing. 
The  country  and  the  town  were  earth  alike,  though 
now  of  springing  grass  and  now  again  of  flagstones. 
His  face,  after  a  night  of  fierce  self-searching, 
looked  its  age,  that  of  a  man  past  forty  ;  his  aspect 
upon  affairs  was  no  more  a  detached  observer's  ; 
his  eyes  were  hard,  his  smile  was  bleak.  Sodden 
misery,  stupor,  and  despair  lay  all  about  him,  and 

18 


book  i  HE  MUSES  ALOUD  19 

would  have  drawn  his  pitying  comments  if  it  had 
not  been  so  with  him  that  all  his  concern  must  be 
for  himself. 

I  She  wants  me,  and  I  must  go  to  her,'  was  the 
burden  of  his  thought ;  but,  like  a  recurring  line 
in  a  poem,  it  concluded  very  diverse  matter. 

I I  played  the  traitor  to  her  ;  I  could  not  wait 
— and  yet  I  must  have  known.  I  said  to  myself, 
It  is  enough  to  have  known  and  loved  her  :  watch 
her  happy,  and  thank  God.  That  should  have 
been  enough  for  any  man  who  had  ever  seen  the 
blue  beam  of  her  eyes  shed  in  kindliness  upon  him  ; 
but  I  grew  blind  and  could  not  see  it.  I  lost  my 
lamp  and  went  astray.  I  ran  about  asking  one 
after  another  to  stop  the  bleeding  of  my  wound. 
God  is  good.  After  eight  years,  she  wants  me,  and 
I  must  go  to  her. 

*  I  love  her,  as  I  have  always  loved  ;  for  she  is 
always  there,  and  I  have  come  back.  She  can 
never  change,  though  her  beauty  grow  graver,  and 
all  knowledge  of  the  vile  usage  of  the  world  have 
passed  before  her  young  eyes.  Artemis  no  more, 
for  she  has  stooped  to  the  lot  of  women  ;  but  still 
invincibly  pure,  incapable  of  sin,  though  she  know 
it  all.  It  can  never  touch  her  ;  she  goes  her  way. 
She  wears  a  blue  gown  now,  not  a  white  one. 
Demeter,  the  sad,  bountiful  Mother  she  will  be — 
yet  the  same  woman,  the  sweet  and  grave,  the 
inflexible,  the  eternal.  And,  standing  as  she  has 
always  stood,  she  wants  me,  and  I  must  go  to  her. 

' 1  remember  the  wonder,  I  remember  the 
morning  glory  of  her  first  appearing.  The  spell 
of  the  woods  was  upon  her.     Bare-headed,  gowned 


2o  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


in  white,  she  girt  up  her  vesture  and  dipped  her 
white  limbs  in  the  pool.  I  went  to  her,  all  my 
worship  in  my  face  ;  I  worked  with  her  at  her  task. 
Together  we  pulled  the  weed,  we  set  the  lilies 
free.  High-minded  as  a  goddess,  she  revealed 
herself  to  me.  I  was  the  postulant,  dumb  before 
the  mysteries  ;  I  adored  without  a  thought.  I  was 
nothing,  could  be  nothing,  to  her  but  her  lover — 
and  now  she  wants  me^  and  I  must  go  to  her. 

'  For  two  years  I  was  close  to  her  side — either 
I  or  my  words  never  left  her.  She  became  humble, 
suffered  me  to  lead  her,  opened  to  me  her  mind, 
shared  with  me  her  secret  thoughts.  I  told  her 
the  truth  ;  I  hid  nothing  from  the  first.  From 
the  first  day  she  knew  that  I  loved  her.  There 
was  no  presumption  in  this — I  asked  nothing, 
expected  nothing.  I  told  her  often  that  I  looked 
forward  to  her  wedded  state — and  then  it  came, 
and  I  was  not  ready  for  it  as  it  came.  Horrible 
thing,  her  nobility  was  her  punishment.  She  has 
suffered,  she  suffers  ;  she  wants  me,  and  I  must  go 
to  her. 

'  How  am  I  to  go,  tied  and  bound  as  I  am  ? 
What  can  I  do  ?  I  have  been  false  to  my  vows. 
I  belong  in  duty  to  another  world,  to  another 
woman,  who  can  command  me  as  she  will.  I  don't 
know,  I  don't  see.  I  know  only  one  thing,  and 
see  only  her,  calling  me  with  her  inflexibly  grave 
eyes.     She  wants  mey  and  I  must  go  to  her.' 

He  got  up,  and  left  the  Park.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  of  an  April  morning.  Crocuses — her 
flowers — were  blowing  sideways  under  a  south- 
west wind.     Blue  sky,  white   clouds,  shining  on 


,  HE  OPENS  THE  MATTER  21 

the  just  and  the  unjust,  covered  her  in  Yorkshire 
and  him,  her  grim  knight,  in  Mayfair.  He  stalked, 
gaunt  and  haggard-eyed,  down  the  hill,  threading 
his  way  through  the  growing  traffic  of  the  day, 
and  faced  his  business  with  the  lady  in  the  case. 

Mrs.  Germain  was  serious  when  he  entered  her 
sitting-room.  She  was  in  a  loose  morning  gown 
of  lace  and  pink  ribbon.  Pink  was  her  colour. 
Her  dark  eyes  looked  heavy.  She  should  have 
been  adorable,  and  she  was — but  not  to  him  just 
now.  He  stood  before  her,  looked  at  her  where 
she  sat  with  her  eyes  cast  down  at  her  hands  in 
her  lap.  She  had  let  them  rest  upon  him  for  the 
moment  of  his  entry,  but  had  not  greeted  him. 

Now,  as  he  stood  watching  her,  she  had  no 
greeting. 

4  Good  morning,  Mary,'  he  said  presently,  and 
she  murmured  a  reply.  He  saw  at  once  that  she 
was  prepared  for  him,  and  began  in  the  middle. 

*A  friend  of  mine/  he  said,  'is  alone  and 
unhappy.  I  heard  of  it  yesterday  from  Chevenix. 
I  must  go  and  see  her.  I  shan't  be  away  long, 
and  shall  then  be  at  your  disposition.' 

Her  strength  lay  in  her  silence.  She  sat 
perfectly  still,  looking  at  her  white  hands.  Her 
heavy  eyelids,  weighted  with  all  the  knowledge 
she  had,  seemed  beyond  her  power  of  lifting.  He 
was  driven  to  speak  again,  and,  against  his  will,  to 
defend  himself. 

1  I  am  in  a  hatefully  false  position.  I  ought  to 
have  told  you  long  ago  all  about  it.  It  seemed 
impossible  at  the  time,  and  so  from  time  to  time, 
to  open  the  shut  book.     I  closed  it  deliberately, 


22  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


and  from  the  time  of  doing  it  until  this  moment  I 
have  never  spoken  of  it  even  to  myself.  Chevenix, 
who  knew  her  well,  broke  it  open  unawares  yester- 
day, and  now  we  must  read  in  it,  you  and  I.' 

He  stopped,  took  breath,  and  began  again.  '  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  forgive  me,  or  how  I  can, 
so  to  speak,  look  myself  in  the  face  again.  I  have 
played  the  knave  so  long  with  you  that  it  is 
perhaps  the  greatest  knavery  I  can  commit  to  be 
honest  at  last.  But  I  am  going  to  do  it,  Mary. 
I  want  to  tell  you  the  whole  story.  You  have  told 
me  yours.' 

Her  eyes  flickered  at  that,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Passive  as  she  sat,  heavy  in  judgment,  she  was  yet 
keenly  interested.  All  her  wits  were  at  work, 
commenting,  comparing,  judging,  and  weighing 
every  word  that  he  said. 

He  told  her  a  strange,  incoherent  story  of  poet's 
love.  This  mysterious,  shrouded  Sanchia  figured 
in  it  as  the  goddess  of  a  shrine — omnipresent,  a 
felt  influence,  yet  never  a  woman.  He  spoke  her 
name  with  a  drop  of  the  voice  ;  every  act  of  hers, 
as  he  related  it,  was  coloured  by  sanction  to  seem 
the  dealing  of  a  divine  person  with  creeping  man- 
kind. To  Mrs.  Germain  it  was  all  preposterous  ; 
if  she  had  owned  the  humorous  sense  it  would  have 
been  tragically  absurd.  For  what  did  it  amount 
to,  pray,  but  this,  that  Jack  Senhouse  had  been  in 
love  with  a  girl  who  had  loved  somebody  else,  had 
married  her  choice,  and  was  now  repenting  it? 
Jack,  then,  in  a  pique,  had  trifled  with  her,  Mary 
Germain,  and  made  love  to  her.  Now  he  found 
that  his  Sanchia  was  to  be  seen  he  was  for  jumping 


i  IN  THE  LADY'S  MIND  23 

back.  Was  he  to  jump,  or  not  to  jump?  Did  it 
lie  with  her  ?     Jack  seemed  to  think  that  it  did. 

If  it  did,  what  did  she  want  ?  As  to  one  thing 
she  had  long  been  clear.  Jack  Senhouse  was  a 
good  lover,  but  would  be  an  impossible  mate.  She 
had  found  his  gypsy  tent  and  hedgerow  practice  in 
the  highest  degree  romantic.  With  gypsy  practice 
he  had  the  wheedling  gypsy  ways.  An  adventure  of 
hers  in  the  North,  for  instance — when,  panic-struck, 
she  had  fled  to  him  by  a  midnight  train,  had  sought 
him  through  the  dales  and  over  limestone  mountains 
through  a  day  and  night,  and  cried  herself  to  sleep, 
and  been  found  by  him  in  the  dewy  dawn  and 
soothed  by  his  masterful  cool  sense — wasn't  this 
romantic  ?  It  had  drawn  her  to  him  as  she  had 
never  before  been  drawn  to  a  man.  She  felt  that 
here  at  last  was  a  man  indeed  to  be  trusted. 
For  she  had  been  there  with  him,  and  not  a  living 
soul  within  miles,  entirely  at  his  discretion,  and  he 
had  not  so  much  as  kissed  her  fingers.  No,  not 
even  that,  though  he  had  wanted  to.  That  she  knew, 
as  women  do  know  such  things.  Romantic, 
indeed,  trustworthy  !  Why,  a  Bayard,  a  Galahad 
of  a  gypsy !  After  this  adventure,  after  he  had 
driven  her  back  to  her  duty,  she  had  owned 
allegiance  to  nobody  else  in  the  world.  And  when 
her  husband  died  she  had  renounced  her  widow- 
right,  embraced  hardship,  kept  herself  by  teaching ; 
and  when,  finally,  he  came  to  her  and  offered  her 
her  choice,  she  had  chosen  Poverty  for  her  lord  as 
single-heartedly  as  ever  did  Francis  find  his  lady 
in  a  beggar's  garb. 

And  that  being  done,  it  did  not  '  do.'     That 


24  REST  HARROW  book 

was  how  she  put  it  now  ;  but  the  process  had  been 
slow,  and  never  defined.  He  had  carried  her  off 
to  Baden  for  his  work  of  naturalising  plants.  He 
had  a  great  name  for  that,  a  European  name.  In 
three  weeks  his  work  absorbed  him  ;  within  that 
time  she  knew  that  she  was  no  mate  for  him.  You 
can't  be  picturesque  for  ever,  she  thought.  She 
had  never  reckoned  with  his  incredible  simplicity, 
had  never  for  a  moment  connected  his  talk  with  his 
acts.  Perhaps  this  Jack  was  the  only  really  logical 
man  in  the  world.  Now  she  found  that  in  talking 
of  Poverty  as  the  only  happiness,  he  literally  and 
really  believed  it  so.  He  would  own  nothing 
but  the  barest  necessities  —  neither  pictures,  nor 
furniture,  neither  clothes  nor  books.  Pictures, 
furniture  ?  Why,  he  had  no  roof  to  shelter  them  ! 
Clothes  ?  Where  was  he  to  carry  them,  if  not  on 
his  back  ?  Books  ?  He  had  half  a  dozen,  which 
contained  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  So  he 
used  to  cry.  Now,  this  might  be  as  it  was  ;  but 
when  he  seemed  to  expect  her  to  be  of  the  same 
mind  and  behaviour,  you  will  see  that  he  must 
needs  be  mad. 

Yet  so  it  was.  He  had  lived  in  a  tent  for 
twenty  years,  so  took  his  tent  to  Germany,  and  went 
on  living  in  it.  In  that,  with  complete  gravity, 
he  received  the  Grand  Duke  of  Baden,  and  several 
uniformed  high  officials,  who  wore  plumed  head- 
gear and  incredibly  high  collars,  and  glittering 
boots  of  patent  leather.  Folded  superbly  in 
cloaks  of  milky  blue,  they  looked  to  Mary  like 
gods ;  to  Senhouse  they  were  amusing  fellow- 
creatures,  interested  in  his  plants  and  plans.     He 


i  COLOURED  MEMORIES  25 

spread  maps  on  the  ground  and  followed  his 
racing  finger  with  racing  speech.  His  German 
was  faulty,  but  exceedingly  graphic.  His  words 
shook  the  tent  curtains.  Within  half  an  hour, 
such  was  the  infection  of  his  eloquence,  he  had 
most  of  his  company  on  their  knees  beside  him, 
and  the  Grand  Duke,  accommodated  with  a  camp- 
stool,  buried  his  hand  in  his  beard  and  followed 
every  line  without  a  breath.  Of  all  in  that  tent, 
she,  Mary  Germain,  had  been  the  only  person  to 
feel  the  indescribable  squalor  in  the  situation — and 
she  the  only  one  who  might  have  been  born  to  it ; 
for  her  upbringing  had  been  humble,  and  her  rise 
in  the  world  sudden  and  short  of  durance.  But 
she  knew  now  that  she  had  hardly  been  able  to 
live  it  out  for  very  shame. 

Directly  the  visitors  had  departed  there  had 
been  a  scene — she  in  tears  of  vexation  which 
scalded,  and  he  concerned  at  her  trouble,  but  unable 
for  the  life  of  him  to  see  what  it  was  all  about. 
He  had  been  kindness  itself.  He  always  was  the 
kindest  and  gentlest  creature.  If  she  wanted  a 
house,  hotel  or  what  not,  she  should  have  it.  In 
fact,  he  got  her  one,  installed  her,  and  undertook 
to  keep  her  there.  She  bit  her  lip  now  to 
remember  that  she  had  agreed — and  the  ensuing 
difficulties.  He  had  no  money,  and  would  have 
none  of  his  own,  and  he  refused  to  live  under 
a  roof  on  any  terms  whatsoever.  Of  ten  thousand 
marks  a  year,  which  he  was  to  receive  from  his 
Grand  Duke,  half  was  to  be  hers  ;  he  would  see 
her  when  she  would,  and  she  might  follow  him 
about   as  she  would — or  not,  if  she  would   not. 


26  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


He  could  not  see  that  there  was  anything  extra- 
ordinary in  these  propositions.  To  him  it  was  the 
simplest  thing  in  the  world  that  two  people  should 
do  as  they  pleased.  Society  ?  What  in  the  name 
of  God  had  society  to  do  with  it  ?  She  remem- 
bered her  tears,  and  his  blank  dismay  when  he  saw 
them.  He  thought  that  she  was  unhappy,  and 
so  she  was  ;  but  she  was  grievously  angry  also,  that 
she  could  not  make  him  see  what  things  would 
'  do '  and  what  things  ■  never  do.' 

His  work  had  inflamed  him  ;  he  had  marched 
from  place  to  place,  unencumbered  and  without  a 
thought  or  care  in  the  world — inspired  with  his 
scheme,  in  which  plants  stood  for  the  words  in 
a  poem.  He  slept  out  many  nights  on  the 
Felsenberg,  on  the  ground,  wrapped  in  a  cloak. 
He  disappeared  for  weeks  at  a  time  in  impene- 
trable forests,  sharing  the  fires  of  charcoal-burners, 
mapping,  planning,  giving  orders  to  a  secretary 
from  the  Botanical  Department,  as  wild  as  a 
disciple  should  be.  There  was  nothing  for  her, 
poor  lady,  but  to  sit  about  in  hotel  saloons — as  the 
widow  of  an  English  gentleman,  occasionally  visited 
by  an  eccentric  friend.  So  she  put  it  for  the 
benefit  of  society  ;  but  this  had  not  been  her  idea 
of  things  when  she  had  tumbled  into  Senhouse's 
arms — nor  had  it  been  his. 

Her  ruling  idea  in  these  days  of  disenchantment 
and  discomfort — and  it  was  her  ruling  idea  still — 
was  to  preserve  appearances.  The  great,  invincible, 
fundamental  instinct  of  the  class  from  which  she 
had  sprung — to  keep  oneself  unspotted  by  the 
world.     The  variation  upon  the  text  is  Senhouse's 


,  HEARTS  AND  RINGS  27 

own,  done  in  a  moment  of  exasperation  over  her 
untiring  effort  to  appear  what  she  was  not  and  did 
not  want  to  be.  She  loved  the  man  sincerely  ;  if 
she  had  been  married  to  him  she  would  have  kept 
faithfully  to  his  side.  But  she  had  no  lines  ;  her 
wedding  ring  was  not  of  his  giving.  Without 
these  assurances  she  simply  could  not  love  him. 
It  came  to  that. 

He  had,  when  they  had  approached  the  matter 
of  alliance,  put  aside  marriage,  literal  marriage,  as 
out  of  the  question.  He  took  it  airily  for  granted 
that  she  agreed  with  him.  The  servitude  of  the 
woman  which  it  implied  was  to  him  unspeakably 
wicked.  He  could  not  have  treated  the  vilest 
woman  in  such  a  manner.  But  he  had  reckoned 
without  the  woman  in  her  case.  To  her,  free- 
dom to  love,  without  sanction  or  obligation, 
destroyed  love.  When  he  found  that  out,  which 
he  did  after  a  year  of  her  German  vexations, 
he  offered  himself  and  his  convictions  to  her. 
He  humbled  himself  before  her — but  by  that  time 
she  would  not.  By  that  time  she  had  recovered 
her  widow's  portion  (which  had  been  dependent 
upon  her  remaining  sole),  and  was  entitled  to  some 
thousands  a  year  and  a  good  dower-house  in  Berks. 
She  declined  to  marry  him,  and  acted  as  such. 
She  had  been  his  wife  in  fact  for  a  quarter  of  a 
year  ;  she  was  his  friend — as  he  was  hers — for  the 
rest  of  their  time  abroad.  He  had  respected  her 
wish,  but  had  kept  himself  at  her  free  disposal, 
until  now  of  late,  when  this  disturbing  Sanchia 
Percival  arose  out  of  the  nothingness  and  was 
shown  to  her  as  a  goddess  newly  from  the  shades. 


28  REST  HARROW  book 

And  so  now  here  sat  Mrs.  Germain,  with  her 
eccentric  friend  pale  and  gaunt  before  her,  unlike 
himself  as  she  had  always  known  him,  about  to 
take  her  at  her  word,  and  to  behave  as  a  friend 
might.     What  should  she  say  ? 

He  would  come  back  if  she  chose  ;  he  had  said 
so — and  he  was  incapable  of  lies.  If  he  came  back, 
and  if  she  chose,  he  would  marry  her,  and  be  the 
imperturbable,  delightful,  incalculable,  impossible 
companion  she  had  always  known  him.  He  would 
marry  her — and  decline  to  come  under  her  roof. 
He  would,  perhaps,  pitch  his  tent  in  her  paddock  ; 
he  would  sit  at  her  table  in  sweater  and  flannels, 
sandals  on  his  feet,  while  she  and  her  guests  were 
in  the  ordinary  garb  of — gentlefolks.  Gentlefolks  ! 
Yes.  But  the  maddening  and  baffling  thought  was 
a  conviction  that  he  would  be  the  greatest  gentle- 
man there.  She  knew  that.  Lord  of  his  mind, 
lord  of  his  acts,  easy  in  his  will,  and  refusing  to 
bow  to  any  necessity  but  that,  he  would  be  the 
superior  of  them  all.  Could  this  be  borne  ?  Or 
could  she  bear  to  surrender  so  rare  a  friend  to  a 
Miss  Percival  ? 

Who  could  Miss  Percival  be  ?  It  was  a  good 
name — better  than  Middleham,  which  had  been 
her  own,  as  good  as  Germain,  which  had  been 
her  husband's.  Sanchia,  an  extraordinary  name, 
an  unusual  name.  It  sounded  Spanish  and  aristo- 
cratic. The  Honourable  Hertha  de  Speyne  :  she 
had  known  the  daughter  of  a  noble  house  so 
styled  in  her  governess  days,  her  days  of  drudgery, 
and  even  now  it  had  a  glamour  for  her,  who  had 
since   hobnobbed  with   many  honourables,  flirted 


j  HE  FEELS  THE  PULL  29 

with  many  young  lords,  and  been  kissed  by  a 
duchess.  Miss  Sanchia  Percival  :  the  Honourable 
Sanchia  Percival.  No  doubt  this  was  a  high  lady. 
And  she  must  be  beautiful,  or  Jack  wouldn't  speak 
of  her  as  he  had.  He  hushed  his  voice  down,  he 
spoke  as  if  she  were  a  goddess,  as  if  to  disobey  her 
call  was  out  of  the  question.  A  dull  heat  stirred 
deeply  within  her,  and  she  found  herself  setting 
her  teeth  together.  No  !  Jack  had  brought  her 
to  this  pass — and  she  would  not  be  left  there. 

These  were  the  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Germain  as 
she  sat  very  still,  with  heavy-lidded  eyes,  listening 
to  Senhouse's  story.  He  ended  it  in  these  words  : 
*  You  charmed  me,  Mary,  and  you  still  charm  me. 
You  are  very  sweet,  and  I  shall  never  want  a  dearer 
mate  than  you  might  be,  if  you  would.  I  vow  to 
you  that  you  are  the  only  woman  with  whom  I 
have  wished  to  live,  as  we  might  live  if  you  would. 
I  can't  make  you  see,  I'm  conscious,  what  I  feel 
about  Sanchia — but  it's  certainly  not  that.  My 
little  dear,  can't  you  trust  me  ? '  He  looked  down, 
and  saw  her  tears  slowly  dropping  ;  he  was  very 
much  moved,  knelt  by  her  side.  She  turned  her 
face  away,  dangerously  moved  also.  She  struggled 
with  her  tears,  her  face  contorted,  her  bosom 
heaving  in  riot.  Senhouse  took  her  hands,  but 
she  wrenched  them  away  and  covered  her  face  with 
them.  Passion  grew  upon  her,  passion  of  regret, 
of  loss,  of  rage,  of  desire — 4  Oh,  leave  me,  leave 
me !  Oh,  cruel,  cruel !  No  man  in  the  world 
could  be  so  cruel — '  and  then  she  sprang  up,  and 
faced  him,  flushed  and  fierce  as  a  woman  whom 
love  has  made  mad. 


30  REST  HARROW  booki 

*  I  believed  in  you,  I  gave  you  everything  I 
had.  You  have  had  it,  and  you  leave  me.  I  made 
no  pretences — I  told  you  all  my  secrets.  You  said 
that  you  loved  me — and  now  you  leave  me.  Go, 
please.     I  hope  I  shall  never  see  you  again.' 

Her  great  eyes  loomed  in  her  hot  face  like 
beacons.  Her  colour  was  high,  her  lips  vivid. 
She  looked  as  beautiful  as  an  Indian  flower.  She 
was  fighting  for  her  own  like  a  cat.  An  absent, 
shadowy,  icily-pure  Sanchia  could  never  contend 
with  this  quivering  reality  of  scarlet  and  burning 
brown  ;  and  the  man  stood  disarmed  before  her, 
watching  her  every  movement  and  sensible  of 
every  call  of  her  body.  Her  wild  words  provoked 
him,  her  beauty  melted  him  ;  pity  for  her,  shame, 
memories  of  what  he  had  believed  her,  impossible 
visions  of  what  she  might  be  ;  he  was  tossed  this 
way  and  that,  was  whirled,  engulfed,  overwhelmed. 
There  is  only  one  end  to  such  strifes.  With  a 
short  cry,  he  threw  up  his  arms. 

*  God  help  us,  I  stay,'  he  said. 


Ill 

Hear  now  of  the  immediate  end.  This  gentle- 
man, a  philosopher  and  poet,  rich  in  theory,  having 
reached  a  middle  point  in  his  career,  had  found  that 
he  had,  without  knowing  it,  encountered  a  Fact 
which  had  gripped  him  in  a  vital  part,  squeezed 
the  very  fibres  of  him,  sucked  him  apparently  dry 
of  human  juices,  even  of  the  zest  to  live,  and 
presendy  departed,  leaving  him  faint  by  the  way- 
side. Not  until  it  was  clean  gone  did  he  have  the 
least  suspicion  that  it  had  been  there,  and  (if  he 
could  have  known  it)  the  first  glimmering  of  re- 
awakening pulse  in  him  was  the  considering  of  its 
nature.  Brooding  upon  it,  while  he  grieved  over 
his  languor,  he  discovered  that  it  had  not  been 
hard  and  scaly,  like  your  ordinary  vampire,  but 
soft-lipped,  brown -eyed,  warm- fleshed,  cloudy- 
haired  ;  in  fact,  a  pretty  woman.  Now,  in  all  his 
previous  relations  with  that  sex,  while  he  had  given 
much  of  himself,  he  had  never  met  before  with  a 
woman  whose  need  was  the  measure  of  her  allure. 
If  she  had  not  wanted  him  so  much,  he  would 
never  have  thought  of  her  twice.  But  this  was 
precisely  what  had  happened.  She  had  acted  upon 
him   as   a  vacuum  upon  air.      Her   helplessness, 

31 


32  REST  HARROW  book 

her  ignorance,  her  appealing  belief  in  him,  her 
clinging  power,  heightening  her  physical  charm, 
had  sucked  him  in  in  a  stream ;  and  when  she  was 
full  of  him,  he  was  empty.  She  had  been  the  first 
to  find  it  out.  Having  trailed  him  in  her  wake 
for  a  season,  against  his  instincts,  against  his  con- 
science, she  presently  coaxed  him  to  let  her  go. 
Let  her  go  !  He  asked  nothing  better  than  to  see 
her  happy,  and  saw  no  other  way  of  being  so  him- 
self. When  she  had  gone,  and  was  safely  married 
to  an  old  admirer,  our  expended  friend  lay,  like 
a  gaffed  salmon,  faintly  flapping  on  the  bank. 
For  a  year  or  more  he  lay,  and  dated  his  recovery 
of  tone  from  the  moment  of  finding  out  the  nature 
of  his  disaster.  '  She  was  hungry,  and  I  fed  her. 
She  was  thirsty,  and  I  gave  her  drink.  The  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away.  Blessed, 
by  all  means,  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.' 

He  proposed  now  to  resume  his  former  life  of 
sojourn  in  tents  and  desultory  practice  of  the  arts, 
a  life  which,  as  it  was  at  once  highly  practical  and 
entirely  dependent  upon  enjoyment,  we  may  call 
one  of  contemplative  activity.  For  twenty  years 
he  had  not  lived  in  a  house,  slept  in  a  bed,  or 
owned  anything  beyond  the  barest  necessities. 
(The  only  thing  he  had,  indeed,  found  himself 
owning,  had  at  last  removed  itself.)  He  had 
been  by  turns  poet,  painter-in-water-colours, 
tinker,  botaniser,  antinomian,  and  anarchist  ;  and 
attributed  his  success  in  all  these  busy  walks  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  as  strongly  averse  to  the  possession 
of  property  as  he  was  incapable  of  getting  any. 
Here,  then,  was  his  capital,  with  which  to  commence 


i         THE  PRACTICAL  ANARCHIST       33 

the  world  again.  With  this  at  his  back,  you 
would  have  said,  he  had  but  to  pack  his  knapsack, 
stow  his  tent,  and  take  to  the  road.  But  that  was 
not  so. 

He  had,  with  the  purest  intentions,  broken  all 
the  laws  of  Society.  Entitled  to  a  competence, 
he  had  had  neither  house  nor  gear,  earned  just 
so  much  as  would  keep  him  in  food.  He  knew 
what  it  was  to  go  without  a  dinner,  and  what  to 
sleep  under  the  stars.  Yet  he  had  been  extra- 
ordinarily happy.  He  had  held  up  his  head,  and 
kept  it,  alike  with  the  learned — for  he  had  learning 
— and  with  the  simple,  whose  simplicity  he  shared. 
He  had  had  the  knack,  in  fact,  of  getting  himself 
accepted  on  his  own  terms,  exorbitant  as  they 
were  ;  and  of  both  rich  and  poor  alike  he  had 
demanded  entire  equality.  '  Barefoot  I  stand,'  had 
been  his  proposition,  ■  of  level  inches  with  your 
lordship,  or  with  you,  my  hedgerow  acquaintance. 
Take  me  for  a  man,  decently  furnished  within, 
or  take  me  not  at  all.  Take  me  never,  at  least, 
for  a  clothes-horse/  In  all  these  things,  which 
he  had  proclaimed  far  and  wide,  in  divers  tongues, 
all  of  them  eloquent,  he  had  violated  the  unwritten 
laws  of  our  country  as  great  and  small  know  them 
to  be.  Chiefest,  he  broke  them  in  being  happy. 
That  was  outrageous.  But  he  was  now,  it  seemed, 
confronted  with  a  Law  of  Nature  when  he  found 
that,  having  broken  with  a  way  of  life,  you  cannot 
resume  it,  not  because  it  isn't  there  (for  there  it 
is),  but  rather  because  you  are  not  there  yourself. 
You  are  elsewhere,  and  the  road  is  hard  to  find. 
At  forty-two    you    are   not   the    mountaineer   of 

D 


34  REST  HARROW  book 

thirty-five.     Worse  than   that,  worst  sign  of  allv 
you  don't  want  to  be. 

Here  was  a  shock  for  the  poet  in  him,  which 
it  was  the  philosopher's  task  to  allay.  In  heated 
debate  the  two  contended  for  his  reasonable  soul. 

Poet.  I  am  young. 

Philosopher.  You  put  it  so.  You  are  forty- 
two,  and  as  old  as  you  feel. 

Poet.  Away  with  you.  I  am  young,  I  tell  you. 
There  are  worlds  to  see. 

Philosopher.  Europe,  Asia,  Africa — 

Poet.  Alas  !     I  have  never  been  to  Tibet. 

Philosopher.  My  friend,  if  you  wished  to  see 
Tibet  you  would  be  half-way  there  by  now.  I 
know  you  so  well.  Believe  me,  you  have  seen 
more  than  enough.  The  world  is  so  much  larger 
than  you,  that  five-and-twenty  acres  in  Sussex 
will  yield  you  more  wonders  than  you  can  use. 
Take  them,  make  them  yours,  and  from  them 
build  up  your  Tibet.  I  understood  that  you 
were  a  poet. 

Poet.  My  heart  fails  me.  I  have  loved  and 
lost.  I  have  seen  the  dawn,  and  it  has  blinded 
me. 

Philosopher.  Mary  is  happy.  You  could  never 
have  made  her  so. 

Poet.  A  sweet,  good  girl,  but — I  was  not 
speaking  of  Mary. 

Philosopher.  So  I  supposed.  Let  me  remind 
you — 

Poet.  Remind  me  of  nothing.  I  remember 
everything.  She  was  like  the  dayspring  from  on 
high.     When  I  think  of  Greece,  I  think  not  of 


i  PHILOSOPHY  WINS  35 

Plato  and  Sophocles,  but  of  things  more  delicate 
and  shy ;  of  the  tender  hedge-flowers  of  the 
Anthology,  of  Tanagra  and  its  maidens  in  reedy 
gowns,  of  all  of  this  in  a  sweet  clean  light,  as 
she  was,  and  is,  and  must  be.  Ah,  and  I  think 
of  her  as  I  saw  her  first  in  the  woodland,  in  her 
white  gown,  with  the  sun  upon  her  hair.  She 
was  like  the  fluting  of  a  bird  ;  she  was  clear 
melody.  She  girt  herself  high  and  set  her  foot 
in  the  black  water.  She  dipped  her  pure  body 
in  above  the  knees  ;  she,  the  noblest,  the  whole- 
somest,  the  youngest  of  the  gods.  Remind  me 
of  nothing,  I  beg  you. 

Philosopher.  I  must  really  remind  you  of  this. 
You  renounced  her  of  your  own  deliberation,  and 
promised  to  dance  at  her  wedding. 

Poet  (with  a  sob).  So  I  would,  God  bless 
her! 

Philosopher.  That  is  a  charitable  sentiment.  I 
have  done  you  good. 

Poet.  You  are  an  ass. 

I  have  summarised  an  argument  which  was  really 
prolonged  and  very  acrimonious.  The  philosopher 
prevailed,  and  the  poet,  beaten  at  every  point, 
forswore  what  ambitions  remained  to  him,  built 
himself  a  shepherd's  hut  in  a  valley  of  the  Wiltshire 
Downs,  and  planned  out  his  memoirs  in  three 
stout  volumes.  He  believed  that  he  had  reached 
that  stage  in  life  where  retrospect  is  all. 

Volume  I.,  Open  Country  ;  Volume  II.,  Halfway 
House  ;  Volume  III.,  Shepherd's  Crown — are  titles 
which  indicate  the  scope  and  spirit  of  the  projected 
work.     They  were  characteristically  chosen  before 


36  REST  HARROW  book 

a  line  was  written  ;  nor,  indeed,  was  a  single  other 
word  put  to  paper,  not  so  much  as  an  Advice  to 
the  Reader,  for  two  years.  The  building  of  his 
house  with  his  own  hands,  and  the  disposition  of 
the  land  about  it,  occupied  him  for  the  better  part 
of  one  ;  the  next,  with  its  progressive  seasons  of 
fruition,  was  spent  in  meditative  ecstasy  ;  by  the 
beginning  of  the  third  his  cure  was  complete. 
The  poet  in  him  was  now  the  philosopher's  humble 
servant,  as  should  surely  always  be  the  case. 
Resolved  that  the  world  should  be  sweetened  yet,  he 
attacked  his  book. 

He  began  with  the  third  volume,  in  which, 
under  the  heading  of  Shepherds  Crown,  he  pro- 
posed to  discharge  himself  of  the  conclusions  of 
his  ripened  manhood  upon  the  world,  as  he  now 
saw  it  from  his  grassy  outlook.  Not  yet  could 
he  trust  himself  with  Open  Country,  That  was 
for  Thoughts.  That  was  to  be  .filled  with  spheral 
music  which  lay  under  lock  and  bolt  deep  within 
his  nature.  Before  he  could  set  that  free  to  throb 
and  beat  in  his  brain,  he  must  be  quite  sure  that 
it  could  not  win  a  way  back  into  his  heart.  For 
she  of  whom  it  must  consist,  whose  very  name 
was  music,  whose  presence,  as  he  said,  was  like 
the  fluting  of  a  bird,  was  the  renounced,  impossible 
She  ;  that  She  whom  for  reason  clear  and  good 
he  had  loved  (upon  his  knees,  with  covered  eyes), 
and  suffered  go  her  ways.  The  philosopher  was 
clear  upon  the  point  that  Volume  I.  must  be 
withheld  for  a  season,  and  that  Volume  II.,  if 
it  was  to  deal  with  the  enchantment  of  the  flitted 
Mary,  must  wait  also.     Mary  must  be  charitably 


i  DIOGENES'  NEW  HOUSE  37 

handled  ;  give  her  time.  In  Volume  the  third, 
now,  we  were  to  have  neither  music  on  the  one 
hand,  nor  the  sharp  fragrance  of  loose  hair  sand 
warm  breath  on  the  other  ;  but  green  thoughts, 
rather,  ■  calm  of  mind,  all  passion  spent/  as  surely 
at  forty-two  it  must  be.  Let  the  wise  book  deal 
with  life,  not  the  living  ;  with  love,  not  of  woman  ; 
with  death,  but  not  of  the  body. 

Early  in  the  third  year  this  wanderer,  come 
to  anchor,  began  his  book,  and  at  his  task  I 
propose  to  leave  him  until  near  the  end  of  mine. 
But,  that  he  shall  know  the  man  again  when  the 
tale  hath  need  of  him,  the  reader  will  be  pleased  to 
accompany  me  into  his  neighbourhood  for  a  moment. 

Into  the  great  ridge  of  chalk  which  is  the 
backbone  of  South  Wilts,  and  runs  east  and  west 
from  Sarum  to  Shaftesbury,  there  cuts  up  from 
the  south  a  deep,  winding,  and  narrow  valley. 
The  hills,  between  whose  breasts  it  runs  a  turfy 
way,  fold  one  into  the  other  ;  a  man  coming  up 
from  Blandford,  and  minded  to  strike  across  country 
to  Marlborough,  might  well  pass  within  two 
hundred  yards  of  our  recluse  and  never  see  a 
sign  of  him.  It  was  at  the  head  of  this  glen, 
sheltered  by  hills  from  north,  east,  and  west, 
but  open  full  to  the  south,  he  had  built  his  one- 
storied,  deep-eaved  house  of  larch  and  shingles. 
Here,  under  the  sky,  he  watched  and  laboured 
and  slept,  and  saw  nobody,  living  principally  on 
vegetables  of  his  own  growing,  and  cheese,  which 
he  made  from  the  milk  of  a  flock  of  goats.  Bread 
he  had  once  a  week  from  a  peasant's  cottage 
at   the   valley's   foot ;    gypsy  folk   brought   him 


38  REST  HARROW  book 

occasionally  tea  and  tobacco.  For  the  most  part 
he  drank  water,  and  was  too  good  a  traveller  to 
be  rooted  to  his  pipe. 

The  ground  behind  him  sloped  sharply  up  to 
the  ridge,  which  we  call  the  Race-Plain  in  those 
parts,  and  had  nourished,  when  he  first  took  up 
his  rest  below  it,  little  but  nettles,  mulleins,  and 
scrub  of  elder.  A  few  fair  trees — ash,  thorn, 
spindle,  service — struggled  with  the  undergrowth 
which  should  live.  He  was  for  the  trees,  needing 
their  shade  ;  cleared  the  ground,  terraced  it  with 
infinite  pains,  and  utilised  the  water  of  a  mist  pool 
which  he  had  made  on  the  high  land  by  a  system 
of  canals  of  remarkable  neatness  and  ingenuity. 
Tree-trunks,  split  and  hollowed  out,  conveyed 
what  water  he  wanted  as  and  whither  he  would. 

To  the  west  of  his  dwelling  the  slope  was 
gentler,  and  there  woods  and  brake-fern  grew 
peacefully  together  and  made  a  fine  refuge  from 
the  heats.  Behind  this  shelter,  hidden  from  sight 
of  the  house,  he  had  a  broad  linch  for  his  vege- 
tables, and  grew  and  protected  them  to  be  the 
envy  and  despair  of  rabbits.  In  the  woods,  and 
below,  in  the  valley  bottom,  where  wind-sown 
thorns  made  a  natural  park,  his  goats  found  eat- 
age.  He  reserved  the  terraces  about  the  house 
for  the  flowers  which  he  loved  and  understood. 

He  was  an  expert  gardener,  who  in  his  day 
had  been  famous  for  his  skill  in  naturalisation. 
His  feats  in  this  work  have  made  a  stir  beyond 
our  shores.  Alpine  plants  grow  wild  upon  English 
rock-faces  at  his  whim,  irises  from  the  glaring 
crags  of  the  Caucasus  spread  out  their  filmy  wings, 


i  A  FLOWER-SCHEME  39 

when  he  bids  them,  on  Devonshire  tors.  These 
wonders  he  chose  not  to  repeat — for  reasons. 
Pence,  to  begin  with,  failed  him.  The  work 
itself  was  associated  with  the  happiest  and  the 
saddest  moments  of  his  life  ;  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  begin  it.  Moreover,  in  the  course  of  his  year's 
work  of  house-building  and  settling  in,  he  had 
kept  an  eye  for  Nature's  way  in  his  valley,  and 
when  it  came  to  making  a  flower-garden  he  found 
that  she  had  one  there  to  his  hand. 

He  said,  *  Nothing  is  lovelier  in  flowers  than 
true  colour.  Form  is  nothing  to  Nature  ;  it  is 
one  of  Art's  tricks.  Here  I  may  have  a  succes- 
sion of  pure  washes  by  mere  concentration  of 
what  I  find.  The  downs  give  me  everything  ; 
all  I  have  to  do  is  to  group  them. 

1  Here  is  my  design.  For  early  spring,  cowslips 
in  a  cloud.  Scattered  broadcast,  they  are  happy 
accidents  which  you  come  upon  walking  ;  but  if  you 
mass  them  their  scent  tells,  and  you  find  they 
are  nearer  the  colour  of  oranges  than  of  limes. 

1  For  mid-April  and  early  May  I  have  the 
orchids — a  blood-spatter  on  the  bottom  ;  higher 
the  flecked  white,  the  pink,  and  the  yellow  with 
brown.  Then  for  a  shelf  among  rocks  the  milk- 
worts, the  sky-blue,  the  white  and  the  pink  ;  with 
these  I  float  out  May  like  Fra  Angelico.  For 
June  there  are  ragged-robins  like  filaments  of 
rosy  cloud,  and  forget-me-not  to  drift  like 
wood-smoke  over  the  chalk  rubble.  In  July  I 
have  a  pageant.  Fox-glove  and  eglantine  make 
melodious  my  woods ;  ladies'  slipper  gives  a 
golden  cope  to  the  hillside,  with  purple  campanula 


4o  REST  HARROW  book 

to  wind  about  it  like  a  scarf.  After  this — August, 
September,  October — our  uplands  faint  out  in 
semitones:  grey  scabious,  grey  harebell,  pale  bed- 
straw,  white  meadowsweet,  like  the  lace  of  an  old 
lady's  cap.  But  even  so,  if  I  must  have  a  sunset 
glow  of  brown-pink,  herb-willow  gives  it  me. 
Pinch  out  the  leader  of  each  slim  spike,  and  you 
make  a  different  plant  of  it/  Thus  the  poet 
embroidered  the  philosopher's  text,  and  kept  away 
from  his  memories,  and  husbanded  his  pence. 

These  things,  at  any  rate,  he  did,  collecting 
with  diligence  the  plants  to  his  hand,  separating 
them  from  the  grasses  and  bents  in  which  they 
hid,  massing  them  and  marshalling  to  his  pur- 
poses. The  thing  was  done  with  extreme  art 
and  infinite  patience  ;  the  result,  a  rainbow  stream 
of  colour  through  the  working  year. 

He  added  a  few  foreign  growths  :  cyclamen 
for  the  woods,  because  he  did  not  see  how  one 
could  do  without  them  who  had  once  seen  them  in 
Calabria ;  wild  gladiolus,  because  it  loved  the  corn, 
and  there  was  land  in  tillage  within  a  mile  of  him  ; 
a  few  primulas  for  his  conduit's  edges ;  wild  crocus, 
because  She  whom  he  had  loved  best  had  loved 
them  ;  colchicums  for  the  bottoms  in  Autumn, 
because  once  She,  straying  with  him  in  meadows, 
had  picked  some  for  her  bosom  and  at  parting 
given  him  one.  He  had  it  still,  though  he  never 
cared  to  look  at  it.  She  and  it  belonged  to  his 
first  volume,  and  neither  crocus  nor  colchicum 
had  been  added  at  the  date  of  which  I  write.  He 
planted  them  when  he  reopened  that  book,  and 
they  are  thriving  now. 


i  HE  STATES  THE  LAW  41 

Here  was  work  enough  for  a  man  somewhat 
mauled  by  the  world  to  forget  his  hard  knocks 
withal  ;  and  he  forgot  them.  Looking  about  him, 
the  length  and  breadth  of  his  silent  and  lonely 
valley,  he  could  see  nothing  but  amenity  in  the 
earth  which  owed  man  so  little.  It  was  so  with 
him  at  this  time  that  the  more  he  saw  to  love  in 
Nature  the  less  he  could  find  admirable  in  man, 
who  denied  her  at  every  turn.  It  was  men,  not 
She,  who  had  given  him  his  bruises ;  it  was  She, 
not  men,  who  had  taught  him  how  to  forget  them. 
When  outraged  Society  cried  him  down  for  a 
breaker  of  laws,  he  had  replied  that,  so  far  as  he 
knew,  he  had  broken  none  of  Nature's  ;  and  had  it 
been  argued  that  we  live  otherwise  than  as  the 
beasts  that  perish,  he  would  have  retorted, 
'  Whether  the  beasts  perish  or  not,  it  is  very  clear 
that  they  live  to  the  full  in  this  world,  and  that  we 
don't.  Suppose  they  perish,  at  least  they  have 
lived.  If  we  are  to  live  hereafter,  as  to  which  no 
one  is  certain,  we  are  faced  at  our  temporal  death 
with  the  fact  that,  born  into  this  world  with  certain 
faculties,  instincts,  appetites,  and  senses,  we  have 
let  most  of  them  atrophy,  and  the  rest  rot,  by 
many  contributory  causes,  of  which  the  chief  is 
over-eating.  If  I  die,  to  live  again,  I  have  it 
behind  me  that  I  have  lived  well  already.  I  am 
that  much  to  the  good.  And,  that  others  may 
have  the  same  fortune,  I  shall  devote  what  time 
remains  to  me  to  teaching  the  truth,  The  less  you 
have  the  more  you  are'  This  was  his  intention 
when  he  sat  down  to  pen  his  Shepherd's  Crown  ; 
before   he  dared   look  back  upon   Open   Country  y 


42  REST  HARROW  booki 

or  to  plant  the  sacred  crocus,  or  to  look  upon  the 
dry  colchicum  flower  which  had  been  granted  the 
grace  of  a  fair  breast. 

We  meet  him  again,  but  not  yet.  We  have 
him  fast  in  his  moorings,  and  are  to  see  him  rather 
as  a  fixed  point  about  which  other  wandering  lights 
stray  in  narrowing  circles,  to  which  they  converge. 
We  are  to  conceive  of  him,  if  you  please,  as 
writing  his  Book,  while  the  hum  of  cities,  and 
buzz  of  dinner-tables,  noisy  enough  to  us  and  full 
of  excitement,  sound  in  his  ears  not  at  all.  And 
when  I  have  done,  you  will  discover,  if  you  care, 
why  he  changed  the  title  of  his  third  volume  from 
Shepherd 's  Crown,  and  chose  it  to  be  called  Rest 
Harrow. 

The  way  thither  is  long,  and  many  things  are 
to  happen  to  many  people  ;  but  little  happens  to 
him  except  the  wheeling  of  the  years. 


BOOK  II 
SANCHIA  AT  WANLESS  HALL 


43 


I 

A  telegram  was  handed  to  her  as  she  came  in 
from  the  garden,  her  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  in 
her  hand,  and  a  bunch  of  fritillaries  nodding  in 
her  blouse.  That  dates  and  places  her  at  once  : 
the  time  was  April,  and  she  was  fond  of  curious 
flowers.  She  stood  in  the  doorway  to  get  the 
sunset  glow  upon  the  missive,  and  was  herself 
ensanguined  and  enhanced,  a  sunny-haired,  low- 
breasted  young  woman  of  middle  height,  rather 
faintly  coloured,  wholesome  to  see,  with  a  bowed 
upper  lip,  and  clear,  grey-blue  eyes  of  extreme 
directness  and  candour.  A  trick  of  looking  you 
full,  of  considering  you  and  her  answer  together, 
she  had — a  mild,  steady  beam,  a  radiance  within 
the  orb  which  told  of  a  hidden  glory.  Her 
brows  were  level,  eyebrows  arched ;  her  bust, 
though  set  like  Aphrodite's  of  Melos,  was  full. 
The  curving  corners  of  the  bow  of  her  lips 
assured  her  the  possession,  even  when  she  was 
most  serious,  of  a  lurking  smile.  Taking  off  her 
gardening  gloves  that  she  might  break  the  red 
envelope,  she  disclosed  a  pair  of  fine,  white, 
nervous  hands,  and  pointed  fingers  which  wore 
no  rings. 

45 


46  REST  HARROW  book 

The  address,  which  she  was  careful  to  read 
before  she  tore  the  envelope,  was — 

Miss  Percival,  Wanless,  Fclsboro'. 

Opening  then,  she  read  as  follows  : — 
Home  to-morrow  seven  people  Ingram. 

If  she  frowned  slightly,  it  was  a  mere  approach 
of  the  fine  eyebrows  to  each  other.  She  certainly 
smiled — wisely  and  meditatively,  without  showing 
her  teeth.  She  touched  her  chin — a  rounded,  full 
chin — with  the  telegram,  as  she  looked  up  at  the 
maid  who  brought  it. 

1 1  must  see  Mrs.  Benson  about  this.  It's  from 
Mr.  Ingram/ 

'Yes,  Miss  Percival/ 

A  friendly  desire  to  share  the  puzzle  was  now 
manifest  in  the  clear  eyes. 

'You  see,  Minnie,  it  might  mean  one  of  two 
things,  and  I  am  not  quite  sure  which  of  them  it 
does  mean/  She  looked  again  at  the  message 
with  amused  interest ;  but  one  could  not  have 
said  whether  she  was  amused  at  her  interest,  or 
interested  in  her  amusement.  That  was  part  of 
Miss  Percival's  charm,  that  she  was  always  baffling 
you. 

But  Minnie,  the  maid,  was  demure  and  mono- 
tonous under  the  attack  of  friendly  desires.  '  No, 
Miss  Percival,'  she  said,  and  added,  c  I  am  sure  I 
couldn't  say.'  She  stood  aside  from  the  doorway 
as  the  young  lady  entered  the  billiard  -  room, 
saying,  as  she  went,  *  Ask  Mrs.  Benson  to  come  to 
my  room,  Minnie,  please  ;   and  tell  Frodsham  I 


ii  SANCHIA  ON  HER  WAY  47 

should  like  to  see  him  directly  he  comes  to-morrow 
morning.' 

She  heard  Minnie's  *  Very  well,  Miss  Percival,' 
as  she  disappeared,  smiling  still,  and  with  a  slight 
heightening  of  colour.  When  her  colour  rose,  it 
rose  evenly,  flooding  her  face  and  neck  with  the 
dawn-hue.  There  were  no  patches  or  streaks  of 
flame  ;  she  showed,  as  it  were,  incandescent. 

She  crossed  the  hall  in  the  deepening  dusk,  a 
fine,  littered  room,  where  a  great  log-fire  revealed 
the  tall  portraits  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  long 
ago — sportsmen  with  spaniels  at  their  feet,  general 
officers  in  scarlet,  pointing  through  smoke  the 
direction  of  the  enemy,  a  judge  in  ermine  and  full- 
bottomed  wig,  a  lady  in  white  satin  leaning  against 
a  broken  column  in  a  park,  and  backed  by  a 
brewing  thunderstorm  ;  and  as  she  went  her  way 
gave  a  couple  of  glances  to  right  and  left,  picked 
up  a  Bradshaw  from  a  side-table,  stooped  to  put 
a  tiger-skin  straight.  She  continued  down  a  long 
corridor,  swinging  her  hat,  and  entered  an  open 
doorway  at  the  extreme  end.  By  the  way  she 
tossed  the  hat  on  to  a  chair  and  stirred  the  crack- 
ling logs  with  the  point  of  her  shoe,  it  was  to  be 
supposed  that  she  was  in  her  demesne.  Standing 
with  a  foot  on  the  fender  she  presently  fell  into  a 
reverie,  and  presently  reopened  and  re-read  her 
telegram.  Certainly  she  was  smiling,  and  certainly 
her  colour  was  enhanced. 

The  room,  though  business-like,  was  feminine. 
It  had  a  Chippendale  bureau  between  the  windows, 
its  pigeon-holes  stuffed  with  papers  ;  but  there  were 


48  REST  HARROW  book 

flowers  upon  it,  and  elsewhere  many  photographs, 
and  pictures  evidently  chosen  by  the  tenant.  The 
Dante  from  the  Bargello  was  one,  the  three  headless 
Fates  of  the  Parthenon  another  ;  the  Hermes  and 
the  Sophocles,  all  in  autogravure.  It  had  a  piano, 
and  a  small  bookcase  containing  the  poets  in  green 
morocco,  a  uniform  set.  Elsewhere,  in  a  larger 
bookcase,  were  miscellaneous  volumes,  by  no  means 
all  novels,  though  novels  there  were.  One  shelf 
was  filled  with  household  books  :  cookery,  bee- 
keeping, poultry,  the  Dog  in  Health  and  Disease, 
the  horse,  the  flower-garden,  Botany,  British  Edible 
Fungi,  the  World  of  Vegetables,  were  some  of  the 
subjects  treated  of.  Below  the  bookcase  was  a 
row  of  japanned  tin  boxes,  carefully  lettered  in 
white  paint.  House  Accounts,  Garden  Accounts, 
Stable  Accounts,  one  read.  A  fourth  bore  the 
words  '  Wood  Sales  and  Miscellaneous. ' 

If  you  were  alone,  waiting  in  the  room,  you 
would  glance  at  the  photographs  perched  about, 
like  alighting  butterflies,  upon  piano  and  mantel- 
shelf and  occasional  table.  You  would  pass  over, 
I  believe,  the  children  on  ponies  and  in  sailor  suits, 
that  elderly,  ample  lady,  brooched  and  in  black, 
beaming  under  the  status  of  Grandmamma,  that 
gaitered  gentleman  with  a  square-topped  felt  hat 
upon  his  head  and  grizzled  whiskers  below  his 
ears,  in  favour  of  a  group  of  five  girls  in  black 
muslin  and  lace,  sisters  evidently,  prosperously  to- 
gether, an  uncommonly  happy  five.  They  look  on 
good  terms  with  themselves  and  with  each  other. 
They  look  frankly  at  you  out  of  the  frame — and 
how  they  must  have  dazzled  the  photographer  with 


ii  PHOTOGRAPHS  49 

their  five  pair  of  bright,  uncompromising  eyes  ! 
Hands  rest  easily  upon  familiar  shoulders,  elbows 
on  knees.  One  of  them  smiles  outright,  two  are 
very  ready  to  smile ;  one  is  more  serious,  as 
becomes  the  eldest  of  five  ;  and  one  is  round- 
cheeked  and  solemn — the  baby. 

Miss  Percival  and  her  sisters,  it's  clear.  One 
can't  mistake  the  rounded  chin,  the  level  brows, 
the  promise  of  womanhood.  Women  should  always 
be  photographed  in  evening  dress  if,  like  the 
Misses  Percival,  they  have  nothing  to  hide.  But 
now  to  pick  out  our  Miss  Percival.  You  will 
observe  that  the  young  ladies'  names  are  neatly 
printed  beneath  their  persons. 

Even  if  I  were  sure  of  dates,  I  should  not  insist 
upon  the  serious  one.  So  far  as  I  can  judge,  the 
photograph  is  some  eight  or  ten  years  old.  I  go 
by  the  style  of  hairdressing  which  it  shows,  and 
by  the  name  of  the  photographer,  who  signs  from 
Wigmore  Street.  He  is  out  of  date  ;  fashion  has 
deserted  him.  Then  that  grave,  watchful  young 
goddess,  who  sits  enthroned  with  her  nymphs  about 
her,  must  be  a  great  deal  older  than  our  lady  of 
this  room,  of  the  doubtful  smile  and  friendly 
desires.  She  has  the  sedate  air  of  eight-and- 
twenty,  and  by  this  time  must  be  thirty-six  or  even 
more.  She  is  Philippa,  anyhow,  we  read.  Who 
comes  next  ?  Here  is  Hawise,  standing  behind  her 
of  the  throne  and  the  centre,  with  a  hand  on  her 
bare  shoulder.  She  is  laughing,  sleepily  ;  she  is 
distinctly  pretty,  but  distinctly,  also,  fat.  She 
cannot  be  the  owner  of  this  room. 

There's    a    taste    for   names    in    the    Percival 


© 


REST  HARROW  book 


family  !  we  have  Philippa,  Hawisc.  Now  for  the 
seated  pair,  one  on  either  side  of  Philippa  :  they 
are  Melusine,  who  has  a  long  neck  and  a  very 
demure  look,  and  a  great  deal  of  hair,  and  Victoria, 
who,  having  just  tossed  back  her  head,  lifts  her 
chin  and  glimmers  at  you  through  half-shut  eyes. 
Her  lips  laugh  snugly  at  some  mischief  meditat- 
ing. Neither  of  these  can  be  our  lady,  who  must 
therefore  be  the  last  and  youngest,  this  child  of 
eighteen  or  so,  round-cheeked,  round-eyed  and 
serious,  with  critical  lids,  like  those  of  the  Farnese 
Hera,  and  a  beautiful  mouth  :  Sanchia-Josepha, 
crouched  on  the  floor  at  the  feet  of  Philippa.  A 
charming  bevy  of  maidens — Philippa,  Hawise, 
Melusine,  Victoria,  Sanchia-Josepha  ;  ten  years  ago 
happily  sisters  and  rich  in  promise,  looking  out 
boldly  at  the  veiled  years  ahead  of  them.  Ten 
years  ago  ?  Call  it  eight,  and  you  make  our  Miss 
Percival,  say,  six-and-twenty  by  this  time. 

There  are  many  other  photographs  —  girls 
and  women,  most  of  them  ;  but  here  is  a  man, 
dignified  by  a  place  apart  upon  the  bureau.  He 
occupies  one  side  of  it  by  himself,  balanced  by  the 
sisters  at  the  other.  A  youngish  man  in  yeomanry 
uniform,  he  appears  only  in  torso.  He  has  the 
smooth  head  of  a  soldier,  and  rather  a  low,  but 
very  square,  forehead.  His  eyes  are  smallish,  and 
set  deep.  They  look  to  be  grey,  light  grey,  but 
may  be  light  blue.  He  has  a  good  nose,  high- 
bridged,  large,  thin,  and  practically  straight.  Such 
noses  are  seldom  perfectly  straight,  and  his  is  not. 
I  observe  that  he  has  curled  his  moustache  with 
the  tongs,  so  that  it  is  well  away  from  his  upper 


ii  A  SNAPSHOT  51 

lip.  If  I  had  been  he  I  should  not  have  done 
that.  It  is  too  much  trouble — and  if  a  man  takes 
pains  about  his  toilette,  those  pains  ought  not  to 
be  evident.  Moreover,  the  mouth  is  by  no  means 
this  young  man's  best  feature.  There  is  a  twist, 
the  hint  of  a  snarl  in  the  upper  lip.  The  lower 
protrudes.  The  gentleman  is  the  least  in  life 
underhung.  Consider  his  chin.  It  has  the  jut  of 
the  Hapsburgs',  of  Charles  the  Fifth's,  not  pro- 
nounced by  any  means,  but  undoubtedly  there. 
Firmness,  or  perhaps  obstinacy,  hard  judgment,  an 
uneven  temper,  a  leaning  to  autocracy,  I  read  in 
this  portrait.  There  is  no  signature,  nothing  to 
tell  you  who  he  is.     Certainly,  no  Percival. 

I  call  your  attention  to  one  more  photograph, 
in  marked  distinction  to  others  of  your  notice. 
Those  were,  in  every  sense,  full-dress  affairs  ;  this 
one,  in  all  senses,  undress.  It  is  the  work  of  an 
amateur,  you  can  see  at  once — small,  rather  blurred 
to  begin  with,  not  perfectly  focussed,  and  fading 
now  towards  the  end  of  all  such  gear.  It  repre- 
sents a  bareheaded  young  lady  in  a  white  gown 
pinned  very  high.  She  is  standing  in  a  pond,  with 
the  water  well  over  her  knees.  One  hand  keeps 
her  balance  with  a  pole,  the  other  grasps  a  streamer 
of  water-weed.  Floating  beyond  her  upon  some 
kind  of  raft  is  a  man,  bareheaded  also,  in  a  white 
sweater  with  a  rolling  collar.  His  face  is  shadowed 
— you  can  see  that  his  hair,  black  and  straight, 
falls  over  his  eyes.  He  is  raking  up  the  weed  with 
his  hand,  his  arm  bare  to  the  shoulder.  Below  is 
written,  in  a  round,  sprawling  hand,  '  To  Sanchia 
from  Percy.'     Both  the  workers  are  intent  upon 


BOOK 


52  REST  HARROW 

their  task,  with  no  idea  that  they  are  posing.  The 
girl  has  a  Greek  face,  and  a  very  fine  pair  of  legs 
heedlessly  displayed.  The  man  is  as  thin  as  a 
gypsy.  Out  of  the  dark  in  which  his  face  is  hidden 
gleam  his  white  teeth.  A  classical,  rather  than 
romantic  scene.  The  absence  of  draperies  suggest 
it ;  but  the  absence  of  self-consciousness  is  con- 
clusive. 

But  I  keep  Miss  Percival  too  long  at  the  fender. 
She  had  been  standing  there  for  some  minutes  after 
her  entry,  first  re-reading  her  telegram,  next  strok- 
ing her  chin  with  it.  She  was  thoughtful  still,  and 
still  smiling.  Once  she  looked  over  her  shoulder 
through  the  window  to  the  dying  day,  and  lightly 
sighed.  The  time  was  April's  end,  and  had  been 
squally,  with  violent  storms ;  but  the  last  onslaughts 
of  the  north-wester  had  routed  the  rain -clouds. 
The  day  was  dying  under  a  clear  saffron  sky,  and 
a  thrush  piped  its  mellow  elegy.  Miss  Percival 
heard  him,  and  listened,  smiling  with  her  lips,  and 
with  her  eyes  also  which  the  serene  light  soothed. 
Her  lips  barely  moved,  just  relaxed  their  firm 
embrace,  but  no  more.  She  held  the  light  gratefully 
with  her  eyes,  seemed  unwilling  to  lose  a  moment 
of  it,  wistful  to  be  still  out  of  doors.  Again  she 
lightly  sighed,  and  presently  resumed  her  down- 
ward gazing  at  the  fire. 

Knuckles  quavered  at  the  door.  She  straightened 
herself,  turned,  and  called  out  definitely,  'Come  in.' 
Mrs.  Benson  stood  before  her,  vast,  massive,  black- 
gowned,  cloudy  for  trouble,  a  cook. 

There  was  instantly  to  be  observed  in  Miss 
Percival's  lifted    head    and   eyes   the   same   frank 


ii  OMENS  FOR  MRS.  BENSON  53 

appeal  for  interchange  of  sentiments  as  had  been 
manifested  to  Minnie  the  maid.  Her  brows  were 
smoothed  out,  her  smile  became  less  dubious  ;  her 
intention  to  be  friendly  was  deliberately  expressed. 
But  truth  will  have  it  that,  just  as  before,  Mrs. 
Benson's  guard  turned  out  at  the  same  moment, 
as  at  a  signal.  To  vary  the  figure,  her  vedettes, 
in  touch  with  the  advancers,  fell  back  upon  the 
main  body. 

If  the  young  lady  perceived  this  she  did  not 
cease  to  be  amiably  disposed.  ■  Oh,  Mrs.  Benson/ 
she  said,  'I've  had  a  telegram.' 

Mrs.  Benson,  with  strict  non-committal,  lifted 
her  eyebrows  to  '  Well,  well ! '  It  was  as  if  she 
implied  that  such  things  were  to  be  expected  in  a 
world  full  of  trouble.  ■  So  I  hear,  Miss  Percival,' 
she  grimly  said. 

■  It's  from  Mr.  Ingram,  you  know.' 

4  Ah,  well — '  Mrs.  Benson  could  have  been 
heard  to  sigh  ;  but  among  the  many  things  which 
Miss  Percival  chose  to  ignore,  this  sort  of  thing 
was  one.  Trouble  to  her,  always,  was  a  signal 
which  braced  the  nerves  and  sinews. 

*  It's  to  say — but  I  think  you  had  better  read 
it.'  It  was  held  out  unfalteringly,  while  Mrs. 
Benson  dived  for,  opened,  wiped,  tested,  and  fixed 
her  spectacles.  These  operations  concluded,  it 
was  received  as  might  have  been  a  dangerous 
explosive. 

Punctuating  as  she  went,  Mrs.  Benson  read, 
*  Home  to-morrow — seven  people — Ingram?  Then 
she  looked,  confirmed  in  her  omens,  over  the  rim 
of  her  spectacles.     '  Seven  people,  Miss  Percival ! 


54  REST  HARROW  book 

A  house -party !  And,  as  you  may  say,  at  a 
moment's  notice.     Dear,  dear,  dear  !  ' 

Miss  Percival  remained  cheerful.  *  Oh,  I  don't 
read  it  like  that,'  she  said,  went  behind  Mrs. 
Benson,  and  read  over  her  shoulder,  pointing  the 
words  with  a  pencil  still  wet  from  her  mouth. 
{  "  Home  to  -  morrow,  seven  —  with  people  — 
Ingram."  That's  what  it  must  mean,  of  course.' 
She  spoke  wooingly,  but  Mrs.  Benson  was  not  to 
be  won. 

'  Then,  why  does  he  say  "  Seven  people,"  Miss 
Percival  ?     Why  does  he  say  that  ? ' 

*  But  he  doesn't,  according  to  me.'  She  laughed. 
*  He  is  telling  us  the  time  of  his  train.  How  could 
we  meet  him  and  his  people  if  he  didn't  ? ' 

*  Ah,'  said  Mrs.  Benson,  heavily  prepared  for 
the  worst,  '  how  could  we  ?  That's  where  it  is, 
you  see.     But  of  course  he  wouldn't  think  of  us.' 

1  But  he  does,  you  know.  He  has.  He  says 
that  he  will  have  people  with  him.  That  is  to 
prepare  us.'  Mrs.  Benson's  fist  crashed  into  the 
paper. 

'  How  many  people,  Miss  Percival  ?  How 
many  people  ?  Why,  seven,  of  course  !  What 
else  could  it  be  ?  And  where's  the  fish  to  come 
from  for  seven  people  ?  And  what  about  maids 
and  valets  ?  Does  he  count  up  the  likes  of  them  ? 
He's  not  Mr.  Ingram  if  he  does.  Not  he  !  Nor 
his  father  before  him.  And  what's  Frodsham 
going  to  do  about  carriage-room  for  seven — and 
the  servants  as  well — and  the  luggage,  and  all  ? 
Dogs,  very  likely,  dogs  and  cats,  and  parrots. 
Who  knows  ?     I've  seen  'em   bring   scritch-owls 


ii  MRS.  BENSON  ON  WOMAN         S5 

and  hawks  on  their  wrists  before  now.  Oh,  they'll 
do  anything,  some  of  'em — anything  to  be  looked 
at.  That's  what  it  is  ;  they  want  looking  at. 
And  I'd  look  at  'em  if  I  had  my  way  ! ' 

Mrs.  Benson,  shining  with  indignant  heat,  had 
to  be  pacified.  She  required  much  tact,  the 
exercise  of  a  low  and  musical  voice.  It  cooed 
upon  her  like  a  dove's.  Miss  Percival  used  her 
hands,  too,  and  in  the  end  had  one  of  them  on 
Mrs.  Benson's  shoulder.  The  charm  worked. 
Dinner  should  be  cooked  for  five  or  six  ;  Frod- 
sham  should  meet  the  seven-four  from  London 
with  the  omnibus  and  luggage-cart.  There  would 
be  no  dogs  at  this  time  of  year.  Parrots  were 
urged  upon  her  again,  but  tentatively.  She 
chuckled  them  away,  musically,  with  real  relish 
for  the  picture.  She  was  sure  there  would  be  no 
parrots.  Now  she  must  see  about  the  bedrooms — 
but  Mrs.  Benson  peered  round  into  her  glowing 
face. 

*  And  what  about  your  supper,  Miss  Percival  ? 
It's  just  upon  ready.     And  there's  a  sweetbread.' 

Miss  Percival  almost  caressed  the  ridiculous 
good  soul.  Her  arm  remained  about  her  shoulder, 
her  hand  touched  it.  ■  How  nice  of  you  !  I'll  go 
and  get  ready  at  once.  Then  I'll  see  what  rooms 
we  had  better  have.  Wasn't  it  lucky  we  did  the 
drawing-rooms  last  week  ? ' 

Gloom  gathered  again.  Mrs.  Benson  thought 
that  some  people  didn't  deserve  their  luck.  It 
was  clear  to  whom  she  referred  ;  certainly  not  to 
Miss  Percival,  for  instance.  But  the  young  lady, 
with   really  extraordinary  simplicity,  replied   that 


56  REST  HARROW  book 

surely  Mr.  Ingram  deserved  credit  for  having 
well -chosen  his  ministers.  '  Yourself,'  she  said, 
'for  the  kitchen,  and  me  for  the  hall/  She  ex- 
ploded this  little  bomb  with  some  heightening  of 
colour. 

Mrs.  Benson,  glancing  at  her  sideways,  observed 
the  blush,  and  was  scared.  She  blinked.  Miss 
Percival's  blush  deepened. 

In  the  awkward  pause  that  ensued  the  friendly 
hand  was  about  to  be  removed,  when  Mrs.  Benson, 
with  an  effort  which  did  honour  to  her  resources, 
said,  '  We  all  have  our  troubles,  Miss  Percival, 
else  we  shouldn't  be  here,  as  the  Bible  says.  The 
good  Book  !  Well  for  them  as  read  therein. 
Now,  only  this  afternoon  Mr.  Menzies  was  talking 
to  me  about  things  at  large,  and  he  says,  "  Mrs. 
Benson,  what's  to  be  done  with  Struan  Glyde  ?  " 
quite  sudden.  So  I  says,  "And  what  should  be 
done  with  such  a  one,  Mr.  Menzies,  but  wallop 
him  ?  "  and  he  shakes  his  head  and  says,  "  He's  on 
the  catarampus,  ma'am — in  one  of  his  black  fits. 
Tells  me  to  go  my  way  and  let  him  alone  ;  then 
turns  his  back."  Now,  what  about  such  troubles 
as  that.  Miss  Percival  ? ' 

Miss  Percival  looked  serious,  but  not  especially 
interested.  Her  eyes  looked  before  her,  but 
seemed  not  to  see  anything.  She  asked,  '  What 
did  Mr.  Menzies  say  to  him  next  ? '  but  if  she  was 
interested  it  was  not  in  that  matter. 

Mrs.  Benson  brandished  her  voice.  '  Ha,  you 
may  well  ask  me.  "  No,  my  man,"  he  says,  "  but 
'tis  you  that  must  go  mine  while  I'm  head-gardener 
at  Wanless,"  he  says.     That's  what  Mr.  Menzies 


ii  HINTS  OF  BLACK  BLOOD  57 

told  him,  the  elderly  man  that  he  is — and  now 
look  at  this.  Young  Glyde  turns  his  back  upon 
him,  with  no  more  notice  taken  than  you  or  I 
would  have  of  a  flea  on  the  arm.  Insolence,  that 
is.  Downright  insolence  to  an  elderly  man.  Ah,' 
said  Mrs.  Benson  with  tightening  lips,  *  if  you 
come  to  troubles  ! ' 

Miss  Percival's  tone  was  sympathetic,  if  her 
eyes  were  still  sightless.  *  Really  !  I'm  very 
sorry.  I'll  see  Mr.  Menzies  about  it  to-morrow, 
and  of  course  I'll  talk  to  Struan.  He  is  difficult 
— it's  very  tiresome  of  him.  I  saw  him  this 
afternoon,  but  had  no  notion  of  all  this.  I  can't 
think  how  it  is.  Nerves,  I  suppose.  He's  a 
human  creature,  you  see,  as  well  as  a  gardener.' 

Mrs.  Benson  was  incapable  of  seeing  such  a 
possible  combination  :  her  explanation  was  simpler. 
Human  !  She  scorned  him.  *  Bad  blood,'  she 
said  with  energy  ;  *  bad,  black,  gypsy  blood. 
He'll  be  murdering  one  of  us  in  her  bed  in  a  day 
or  two.     You  see  if  he  don't.' 

Miss  Percival  did  not  deny  the  suggestion. 
She  considered  it  rather — its  effect,  its  effectiveness. 
1  Struan  is  tiresome,  of  course,'  she  said,  ■  but  I  do 
think  he  has  tried  to  restrain  himself  lately.  He 
promised  me  he  would.'  She  turned  her  full  gaze 
suddenly  upon  Mrs.  Benson,  and  almost  disarmed 
that  lady.  ■  I  like  him,  you  know.  He's  very 
nice  to  me.' 

Mrs.  Benson  gasped,  but  recovered  just  in 
time  to  resume  the  dark  oracles  in  her  keeping. 
'  Ah,'  she  said,  ■  he  would  be.  If  you  can  call  it 
nice — ' 


5  8  REST  HARROW  book.i 

*  He's  wonderful  in  the  garden/  Miss  Percival 
calmly  continued.  '  Even  Menzies  admits  it. 
He'll  work  all  day.     He's  never  tired/ 

*  Nor's  a  tiger,'  the  cook  snapped.  *  Nor's  a 
tom-cat.* 

Miss  Percival  looked  pitifully  at  her  and 
smiled.  *  Poor  Struan  —  you  don't  like  him. 
I'll  see  him  to-night.  I  have  an  influence,  I 
think.' 

Mrs.  Benson  touched  the  hand  that  lay  within 
her  reach,  which  had  lately  been  upon  her  shoulder. 
'  Don't,  my  dear,  don't,'  she  said. 

'  Why  not  ? '  asked  the  lady  with  her  lifted 
brows.     '  Why  shouldn't  I  ? ' 

'  Influence  !  The  likes  of  him  ! — Gypsy  blood 
at  midnight — soft-voiced,  murderous — ' 

She  gave  no  coherent  answer,  but  smiled 
always,  then  leaned  forward  and  stroked  Mrs. 
Benson  upon  her  personable  cheek.  '  Dear  old 
thing,  let  me  do  as  I  like.  It's  much  better  for 
everybody,'  she  presently  said. 


II 

It  had  clouded  over  after  sunset  :  there  was  no 
moon  visible,  but  an  irradiance  was  omnipresent, 
and  showed  the  muffled  yew-tree  walks,  and  the 
greater  trees  colossal,  mountains  overshadowing 
the  land.  Here  and  there,  as  you  went, 
glimmered  daffodils,  like  the  Pleiades  half-veiled, 
and  long  files  of  crocuses  burned  like  waning 
fires. 

Miss  Percival,  at  about  nine  o'clock,  came 
gently  down  one  of  these  alleys,  with  a  scarf  over 
her  head  and  shoulders.  She  looked  like  a 
nymph  in  Tanagra.  And  as  if  she  knew  where 
she  was  going,  exactly,  she  walked  gently  but  un- 
falteringly between  the  linked  crocus-beacons  to 
where  the  alley  broadened  into  a  bay  of  cut  yews, 
to  where  ghostly  white  seats  and  a  dim  sundial 
seemed  disposed  as  for  a  scene  in  a  comedy.  The 
leaden  statue  of  a  skipping  faun  would  have  been 
made  out  in  a  recess  if  you  had  known  it  was 
there.  And  as  she  entered  the  place  a  figure 
seated  there,  with  elbows  on  knees  and  chin 
between  his  palms,  looked  up,  listening,  watched 
intently,  then  rose  and  waited. 

4  Struan,'  said  Miss  Percival  comfortably,  *  are 
you  there  ?  * 

59 


6o  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


1  I'm  here/  she  was  answered. 

Thereupon  she  came  easily  forward  and  stood 
near  him.  She  was  in  white  from  top  to  toe  ; 
he  could  see  the  clean  outline  of  her  head  and 
neck,  defined  by  the  hooding  scarf.  He  had  not 
as  yet  taken  off  his  hat,  but  now,  as  she  stood 
there  silent,  he  slowly  removed  it.  Still  there  was 
nothing  said.      Miss  Percival  was  very  deliberate. 

Presently  she  spoke.  ■  You  didn't  tell  me  this 
afternoon  that  you'd  had  a  bother  with  Mr. 
Menzies.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ? '• 

1  Why  should  I  tell  you  ? '  The  words  seemed 
wrung  from  him.     i  Why  should  you  care  ? ' 

*  Of  course  I  care,'  she  said.  '  You  know  that 
I  care.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  ...  But  I 
know  why  you  didn't.' 

*  You  do  not.'     He  denied  her  hotly. 

1  Oh,  but  I  do.     Because  you  were  ashamed.' 

*  It  was  not.  I'm  not  ashamed.  He's  an  old 
fool.  He  thinks  he  can  teach  me  my  business. 
Melons  !  Plants !  Why,  I'm  one  of  them. 
What  can  he  teach  me  ? ' 

'  He's  a  very  good  gardener,'  Miss  Percival 
began,  but  the  rest  was  drowned. 

'  Gardener — he !  He's  a  botcher.  He  measures 
his  melons  by  the  pound.  It's  money  he  wants, 
money-value.  So  much  dung — so  much  meat. 
He  says,  "  Be  careful,  you,  of  the  water-pot  ;  go 
steady  with  your  syringe.  You'll  damp  off  those 
plants  if  you're  not  handy,"  he  tells  me.  To  me, 
this  !  Don't  I  know  what  the  life  of  a  plant  must 
have,  and  how,  and  where  it  must  be  fed  ?  He's 
an  old  fool,  and  you  know  it.     And  I'll  not  be 


ii  COLLOQUY  IN  THE  DUSK  61 

told  things  I  have  got  by  heart  before  a  lad  new 
to  his  breeches.  Besides,'  he  added  darkly,  '  he'd 
vexed  me  before  that,  and  bitterly.' 

*  How  did  he  vex  you  ? '  Miss  Percival's  voice 
came  cool  and  clear,  but  commanding. 

4  That  I  cannot  tell  you,'  said  he. 

'But  I  want  to  know.'  This  seemed  to  her 
sufficing  reason. 

But  he  was  dogged.  ■  Then  I  can't  help  you. 
You  cannot  be  told.' 

1  But  perhaps  I  ought  to  be  told.  Do  you 
think  1  ought  ? ' 

1  Indeed,  I  don't  know.' 

'  Well,  will  you  tell  me  ? * 

*  I  will  not,  indeed.     That  is,  I  cannot.' 
1  It's  very  extraordinary.' 

He  made  no  answer. 

1  Struan,'  said  Miss  Percival,  after  a  while,  '  you 
are  angry.' 

He  turned  quickly.     *  With  you  ?     Never.' 

'I  didn't  say  that.     I  said  you  were  angry.' 

He  said,  '  Ah — and  so  I  am.' 

'  I  am  included,  I  suppose.' 

'You  are  not.     It  could  not  be.' 

She  laughed.      '  I  don't  know — ' 

He  was  vehement.  c  But  you  do  know.  You 
know  it  very  well.' 

She  had  no  answer  ;  but  she  smiled  to  herself ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  she  knew. 

For  two  minutes  or  more  there  was  silence, 
a  time  of  suspense.  Then  Miss  Percival  said, 
'  I've  had  a  telegram.  Mr.  Ingram  is  coming 
to-morrow.' 


62  REST  HARROW  book 

To  this  he  said  nothing.     She  went  on. 

1  He  is  bringing  people  with  him.  Mrs.  Benson 
was  very  funny  about  it.  He  is  coming  at  seven 
with  some  people,  and  she  would  read  it  that  he 
was  coming  with  seven  people.  When  I  asked 
her,  how  could  we  meet  him  if  he  had  not  told  us 
the  time  ?  she  made  a  grievance  of  it,  and  said 
that  was  so  like  him.     So  it  is,  of  course.' 

Struan  remained  speechless,  and  had  turned 
away  his  face.  Miss  Percival  continued  her  re- 
flections aloud. 

1  How  long  has  he  been  away  ?  More  than  a 
year.  He  wrote  once  from  Singapore — then  from 
Rawal-pindi — and  that  was  all,  until  I  got  this 
telegram.  He's  very  casual,  I  must  say/  Here 
she  paused. 

Struan  said  suddenly,  *  Miss  Percival,  I'm 
going.' 

She  turned  with  interest,  and  asked,  with  not 
too  much  interest,  '  Oh  !     Why  ? ' 

He  said,  'You  know  why.' 

She  lowered  her  voice  by  a  tone,  but  no  more. 
i  I  hope  you  won't.  It  would  be  a  pity.  There's 
no  real  reason  for  it.  I'll  speak  to  Menzies  to- 
morrow. He  doesn't  mean  any  harm  to  you. 
He's  only  old  and  grumpy.' 

1  He's  a  fool,'  said  Struan.  '  Certainly,  he's  a 
fool.     But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.' 

Miss  Percival,  ignoring  what  she  chose  to 
ignore,  said  again,  '  I  hope  you  won't  go.' 

The  young  man  shifted  his  ground,  and  dug 
his  heel  into  the  turf.     *  I  must — indeed,  I  must.' 

1  Where  shall  you  go  ? ' 


ii  SANCHIA  PREVAILS  63 

4  God  knows.' 

*  Why  must  you  go  ?  ' 

*  You  know  why.' 

*  Is  it  because  of  Menzies  ? ' 

He  threw  his  head  up.  *  Menzies,  forsooth  ! ' 
He  scorned  Menzies. 

1  Then  I  don't  see  why  you  should  go.  I 
shouldn't  like  it.     I  hope  you  will  stay.' 

He  looked  at  her  now  across  the  dusk, 
intensely.     ■  You  hope  I  will  stay  ? ' 

*  Yes,  certainly  I  do.' 

1  You  hope  I  will  stay  ?     You  ask  me  to  stay  ?  ' 
She  considered.     Then  she  said,  *  Yes,  I  think 
so.     Yes,  I  do.' 

*  Then,'  said  Struan,  '  God  help  us  all.     I  stay.' 
Miss  Percival    said   cheerfully,  *  I'm  so  glad. 

I'll  speak  to  Menzies  to-morrow,  and  get  him  to 
leave  you  alone.  He  knows  how  well  you  do  the 
melons,  but  of  course  he  would  never  admit  it.' 
She  broke  off  the  interview  shortly  afterwards. 

■  I'm  going  to  bed,'  she  told  him.  '  I've  got  lots 
to  do  to-morrow.  Heaps  of  things.  You  must 
get  me  some  of  your  flowers  for  the  rooms.' 

He  was  not  appeased.  *  Menzies  will  do  it,' 
he  said.     She  laughed. 

*  You  know  what  Menzies  will  say — "  Pelar- 
goniums for  the  hall,  Miss  Percival,  and  some 
nice  maidenhair."  He's  not  inventive,  poor 
Menzies.' 

1  He's  an  old  fool,'  said  Struan.  *  He  takes 
flowers  for  spangles  in  a  circus.' 

Miss  Percival  again  laughed  softly,  and  held  out 
her  hand.     *  Good-night,'  she  said.     ■  I'm  going.' 


64  REST  HARROW  bookh 

He  touched  her  hand,  and  then  put  his  own 
behind  his  back. 

c  Aren't  you  going  to  bed  ? '  she  asked  him. 

1  Presently/  he  said.  *  I'm  going  to  walk 
round  for  a  while.' 

She  hovered  for  a  moment,  seemed  to  hesitate, 
to  weigh  the  attractions  of  walking  round.  It 
had  a  charm.     Then  she  decided. 

*  Good-night,'  she  bade  him  for  the  third  time. 

He  grumbled  his  good-night,  and  watched  her 
fade  into  the  dark.  Not  until  she  was  completely 
hidden  up  did  he  put  on  his  hat  again.  Then  he 
prowled  noiselessly  about  among  the  breathing 
flowers. 


Ill 


Wan  less,  as  they  call  it  there, — Wanless  Hall, 
Felsboro',  as  it  is  politically, — stands  squarely  and 
deeply  in  the  hills  of  a  northern  county,  plentifully 
embowered  in  trees,  with  a  river  washing  its 
southern  side.  To  reach  house  from  river  you 
ascend  a  gentle  slope  of  lawns  and  groves  for  some 
hundreds  of  feet,  then  find  a  broad  stepway. 
That  takes  you  to  a  terraced,  parapeted  garden 
very  well  tended,  as  one  should  be  which  has  four 
men  at  its  disposition.  There  stands  the  house  of 
Wanless,  stone-built  in  the  days  of  Charles  the 
Second — a  gleaming,  grey  front,  covered  to  the 
first-floor  windows  with  a  magnolia  of  unknown 
age.  The  main  entrance  faces  north,  from  which 
point  the  true  shape  of  the  place  is  revealed  as  a 
long  body  with  wings,  an  E-shaped  house.  Here 
are  the  carriage-drive  and  carriage-sweep  ;  then 
there's  a  belt  of  trees,  and  beyond  that,  shaped  by 
the  valley,  which  gradually  narrows  to  the  incline 
of  the  hills,  kitchen-gardens,  glass-houses,  a  pond 
(fed  by  a  beck),  water  meadows,  and  hanging 
woods.  Above  those  again  heather-clad  slopes 
climb  to  piled  rocks  and  a  ragged  sky-line.  It  is 
a  fine  property  with  5000  acres  of  shooting,  a 
good  many  farms,  and  a  hill  village  to  its  account. 

65  f 


66  REST  HARROW  book 

The  lodge  at  the  gate  was  half  a  mile  away,  at  the 
end  of  a  good  avenue  of  beech  and  sycamore. 

Mr.  Nevile  Ingram  who,  at  thirty,  had  still  the 
air  of  a  brisk  young  man  and  was  owner  by  inherit- 
ance of  this  place,  arrived  with  his  guests  by  the 
7.4  train  from  London.  The  omnibus  brought 
the  four  of  them,  with  a  maid  sitting  on  the  box 
beside  Frodsham,  and  a  bank  of  luggage  behind 
her  head.  No  parrots,  no  dogs ;  but  a  Mr. 
Chevenix  brought  his  fishing-rods.  Besides  this 
Mr.  Chevenix,  who  had  been  here  before,  there 
was  an  elderly  Mrs.  Devereux,  white-haired  and 
short-sighted,  who  used,  whenever  she  could  find 
them,  a  pair  of  long-handled  glasses,  and  a  young 
Mrs.  Wilmot,  pretty,  very  fair,  rather  helpless. 
It  was  her  maid  who  shared  the  box-seat  with 
Frodsham. 

The  absence  of  a  footman  at  the  station  had 
been  noted  by  Mrs.  Devereux,  the  absence  of  any 
man-servant  at  the  house  struck  her  as  remarkable. 
There  were  none,  and  had  been  none  since  Miss 
Percival  assumed  command  ;  but  at  this  time 
Mrs.  Devereux  knew  nothing  of  Miss  Percival. 
Nevile  Ingram,  banging  the  door  open  with  his 
knee,  jumped  out  first,  and  stood  to  help  the 
ladies  ;  the  next  to  emerge  was  Mr.  Chevenix, 
who,  the  moment  he  touched  earth,  said  '  Right ! ' 
and  looked  as  if  he  had  sparkled.  It  was  clear 
that  he  had  abundant  health  and  was  satisfied  with 
all  the  arrangements  of  Providence.  He  surveyed 
the  house,  the  awaiting  virgins  at  the  door,  wished 
them  both  good  evening,  nosed  the  upper  air, 
snuffed   the   gale,  said   '  Good   old  Wanless — my 


n  SANCHIA  IS  TIMELY  67 

precious  rods ! '  and  dived  for  them  before  the 
ladies  could  descend.  Thereafter  a  timidly  poising 
foot  and  some  robust  breadth  of  stocking  revealed 
the  anxieties  of  Mrs.  Devereux.  On  alighting 
she  shook  herself  like  a  hen,  and  her  draperies 
rustled  to  their  length.  She  found  her  lorgnettes 
and  surveyed  (so  to  speak)  the  absent  men-servants 
with  blank  misgivings.  A  maid  advanced  for  her 
jewel-case,  but  Mrs.  Devereux,  shutting  her  eyes, 
said  ■  Thanks,  I  carry  it,'  and  pressed  it  to  her 
bosom.  A  butler  would  have  had  it.  Meantime, 
Mrs.  Wilmot,  a  hand  to  each  cavalier,  was  descend- 
ing from  the  omnibus.  She  was  a  pretty,  bedraped 
lady,  with  wide  blue  Greuze  eyes,  and  soft  lips, 
always  wet  and  mostly  apart.  She  murmured, 
*  How  kind  you  are  to  me/  and  looked  it  from 
Ingram  to  Chevenix.  Ingram  said  nothing,  but 
Chevenix  dropped  down  his  brisk  *  By  Jove,  Mrs. 
Wilmot,  that's  nothing  to  what  I  could  do  for  you 
— nothing  at  all.'  And  then  they  turned  to  the 
house. 

When  Miss  Percival,  looking  frailer  than  she 
really  was  because  of  her  black  gown,  fairer,  that 
is,  and  paler,  entered  the  hall,  she  found  the  party 
at  a  loose  end.  Mr.  Chevenix  was  in  a  deep  chair, 
turning  over  Bradshaw,  and  whistling  softly  to 
himself.  Ingram,  hands  in  pockets,  was  deprecat- 
ing the  portraits  of  his  ancestors  to  the  two  ladies, 
who  were  not  at  all  interested  in  them.  He 
appeared  to  be  considerably  bored  by  his  guests, 
and  they  to  be  aware  of  it.  Miss  Percival's 
arrival  was  timely,  if  only  because  she  effectively 


68  REST  HARROW  book 

chased  out  ennui.  Chevenix,  as  if  he  had  been 
waiting  for  her,  jumped  up  and  went  to  meet  her. 
He  shook  hands.  *  Hulloa,  Sancie  ! '  he  was  heard 
distinctly  to  say.  *  By  Jove,  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
again/  The  latter  sentence  was  not  quite  aud- 
ible, but  sufficiently  so  to  send  Mrs.  Devereux' 
lorgnettes  up  to  her  nose.  Sanchia  herself,  receiv- 
ing civilities  as  if  born  to  them,  impelled  her  to 
keep  them  there.  She  had  appeared  silently  and 
suddenly  out  of  the  blue.  And  now  she  hovered, 
smiling,  fair,  and  unconcerned,  like  a  goddess  out 
of  a  chariot  come  to  deal  judgment,  and  listened 
charitably  to  Mr.  Chevenix.  How  odd !  How 
more  than  odd !  Mrs.  Wilmot  looked  as  if  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  let  nothing  escape  her. 
As  for  Ingram,  he  greeted  the  apparition  with  a 
smile  and  a  nod  sideways.  But  Mrs.  Devereux 
could  have  sworn  to  a  scare  in  the  eye.  c  How  are 
you,  Sanchia  ? '  he  said,  and  then  to  his  guests, 
*  Miss  Percival  will  show  you  where  you  all  are, 
if  you'll —  Dinner's  at  half-past  eight,  I  believe. 
At  least,  it  always  used  to  be  ;  but  I've  been  away 
for  a  year,  and  they  may  have  changed  all  that. 
Have  you,  by  the  way  ? '  he  asked,  with  a  sudden 
turn  to  Miss  Percival. 

She  looked  calmly  at  him.  *  No.  It's  still  at 
half-past  eight,'  she  said.     He  lit  his  cigarette. 

'  Will  you  show  these  ladies  their  rooms  ? '  he 
required  of  her,  adding  as  an  afterthought,  *  Mrs. 
Devereux,  Mrs.  Wilmot.  Mrs.  Wilmot  has  a 
maid  somewhere.' 

It  was  a  quasi-introduction,  awkwardly  done. 
Sanchia  gravely  bowed,  and  all  might  have  been 


ii  'WHO  IS  SANCHIA?'  69 

well  had  not  her  gentle  smile  persisted.  The 
baffling  quality  of  this,  the  archaic  enigma  of  it, 
made  Mrs.  Wilmot  stare  at  her  helplessly  with 
brimming  blue  eyes.  It  made  Mrs.  Devereux 
shiver.  It  was  she,  however,  who  accepted  the 
inclination  of  the  head.  ■  Good  evening  to  you,' 
she  said.  The  housekeeper  !  This  —  person  ! 
The  pair  of  them  followed  her  upstairs,  Mrs. 
Devereux  marching  before,  like  one  of  the  old 
rigime  to  the  guillotine,  Mrs.  Wilmot  trailing  in 
her  wake. 

Young  Chevenix,  when  they  had  disappeared, 
returned  with  a  grin  to  his  Bradshaw.  ■  No 
change  from  Sanchia,'  he  said  ;  and  ■  Let's  see  : 
Birmingham  depart  4.45.  By  Gad,  that's  a  good 
train.  No,'  he  resumed  ;  '  no  change  out  of 
Sancie.  How  long  is  it  since  you  were  here, 
Nevile?' 

Ingram  was  staring  blankly  out  of  window. 
c  I  think  a  year.  I  don't  know.  You  went  out 
with  me  to  Brindisi,  I  believe,  and  that  was  April, 
and  so's  this — just.  So  you  can  work  it  out. 
D'you  want  me  to  fix  you  up?  You're  in  the 
east  wing,  you  know — I  expect  you  are,  anyhow. 
Where  you  were  before.' 

1  Right,'  said  Chevenix  ;  '  right.  Only  we're 
none  of  us  where  we  were  before,  my  boy.  Don't 
flatter  yourself.'  He  shut  Bradshaw  with  a  bang, 
and  went  off,  singing  softly,  to  a  tune  of  his  own, 
1  No  change,  no  change  from  Sanchia,'  which  he 
turned  into  '  Who  is  Sanchia  ?  What  is  she,  that 
all  our  swains  .  .   .  ? ' 

Miss   Percival,   having    played    the  exact  and 


70  REST  HARROW  book 

perfect  housekeeper  above  —  with  no  apparent 
interest  in  life  but  submergence  in  her  duties — 
returned  to  the  ground  floor  and  sought  Minnie 
in  the  dining-room.  She  made  her  survey  calmly, 
and  gave  such  orders  as  pertained  in  smooth  tones 
which  could  not  jar.  She  seemed  to  consult  where 
she  really  directed.  *  Shall  we  have  the  epergne  ? 
I  think  we  will,  don't  you  ?  Yes.  It's  a  grand 
occasion.  I  don't  think  we  have  ever  had  ladies 
at  Wanless  before.'  An  admission  which  staggered 
Minnie.  Her  '  Oh,  yes,  Miss  Percival,'  and  *  Oh, 
no,  Miss  Percival,'  were  appreciative  and  good  to 
hear. 

She  was  butler,  we  find,  as  well  as  housekeeper, 
for  as  she  stood  there,  meditating  the  table,  Ingram 
came  in,  in  a  hurry,  with  ideas  about  wine.  He 
gave  them  out  in  jerks,  without  looking  at  her. 
Sherry,  of  course,  a  hock,  Lafite.  No  champagne : 
it's  beastly  unless  you  are  tired.  Oh,  and  old 
brandy — the  very  old.  Nothing  of  the  sort  to  be 
had  in  India.  The  climate  kills  it.  He  stood 
very  close  to  her  as  he  spoke.  When  he  re- 
membered the  brandy  he  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  finding  it  there,  kept  it  so.  Minnie 
presently  went  out  of  the  room  upon  affairs  ;  and 
then  he  looked  into  her  face  and  said  in  a  new 
tone,  *  How  are  you,  Sancie  ? '  He  let  his  hand 
slide  down,  encircled  her  waist  lightly  with  his 
arm.  She  gave  him  her  grey  eyes  and  a  slow, 
patient  smile.  '  I  am  quite  well,'  she  said.  *  Are 
you  ? '  Ingram,  watching  her  still,  seemed  dis- 
concerted, as  if  he  wanted  to  say  or  do  more,  but 
couldn't,  for  some  reason.     What  he  did  was  to 


ii  DINNER  AT  WANLESS  71 

remove  his  hand  quickly  and  thrust  it  into  his 
trouser  pocket.  It  might  have  been  suddenly 
stung,  judging  from  his  way  of  whipping  it  away. 
'  Oh,  I'm  all  right,  of  course.  I  must  go  and  dress, 
I  suppose.'  A  year  is  a  long  time  for  an  absence. 
In  the  doorway  he  stopped  and  looked  back,  a  last 
look.  'Supper  in  my  room,  you  know.  We'll 
talk.'     She  held  to  her  mysteries,  and  he  went. 

Dinner  passed  gaily,  Miss  Percival  away. 
Ingram  was  loquacious,  though  rather  caustic ; 
Chevenix  a  good  foil,  easy-tempered,  always  at  a 
run,  a  very  fair  marksman  for  all  his  random 
shooting.  His  was  that  happy  disposition  which 
finds  Nature  at  large,  including  men,  as  precisely 
there  for  his  amusement.  He  relished,  never 
failed  to  relish,  the  works  of  God.  But  then  he 
had  perfect  health.  Mrs.  Devereux  was  something 
of  a  grandee,  though  not  quite  so  much  of  one  as 
she  suspected.  Her  white  hair  towered  ;  she  wore 
black  velvet  and  diamonds.  Mrs.  Wilmot  was 
very  much  of  a  pretty  woman,  and  knew  to  the 
turn  of  a  hair  how  much.  She  had  the  air  of  a 
spoiled  child,  which  became  her  ;  was  golden  and 
rosy  ;  could  pout ;  had  dark-blue  eyes,  which  she 
could  cloud  at  will,  and  fill,  as  we  know,  with 
tears.  She  excelled  in  pathetic  silences,  to  which 
her  parted  lips  gave  an  air  of  being  breathless. 
She  was  beautifully  dressed  in  cloudy,  filmy  things, 
and  had  a  soft,  slight,  drooping  figure.  Innocence 
was  her  forte  :  her  rings  were  superb. 

One  odd  thing  was  noticeable,  and  noticed 
intensely  by  Chevenix,  that  Ingram  hardly  ate 
anything,  though  he  pretended  to  a  hearty  meal. 


72  REST  HARROW  book 

It  came,  Chevenix  saw,  to  dry  toast  and  three 
glasses  of  wine,  practically.  But  he  made  great 
play  with  knife  and  fork,  and  talked  incessantly. 
He  revealed  himself  at  every  turn  of  his  mono- 
logue— for  it  came  to  be  a  monologue — as  one  of 
those  men  whose  motives  are  so  transparently 
reasonable  to  themselves  that  they  need  never  be 
at  the  trouble  to  explain  or  defend  any  act  of 
theirs.  He  was  witty,  though  occasionally  brutal, 
as  when  he  spoke  of  a  dragoman  he  had  had  in 
Egypt,  whose  defence  of  his  harem  had  cost  him 
his  place.  This  man,  a  cultivated  Persian,  had 
proposed  hospitality  to  his  patron  in  Alexandria, 
where  he  lived.  Accepted,  he  had  made  a  great 
supper  for  Ingram,  invited  his  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances, procured  musicians  and  dancing-girls.  It 
was  magnificent,  Ingram  allowed.  The  trouble 
came  afterwards,  when  the  native  guests  had  gone 
their  ways  and  patron  and  host  were  together. 
Ingram  proposed  a  visit  to  the  ladies — ■  the  civil 
thing,  it  appeared  to  me.  But  no,  if  you  please  ! 
Mirza  turned  very  glum,  pronounced  it  not  the 
custom  :  I  must  excuse  him,  he  says.  But  I  say, 
Will  they  excuse  me^  my  good  man  ?  He  makes 
a  sour  face,  so  of  course  I  know  that  they 
won't,  and  that  he  knows  they  won't.  Then 
he  marches  away  upon  some  errand  or  another, 
and  when  he  comes  back  finds  me  tapping 
at  a  door.  You  never  saw  such  a  change  in  a 
chap ;  upon  my  soul,  it  was  worth  it.  He  went 
white,  he  went  grey,  he  went  livid.  His  eyes 
were  like  stars.  No,  I'm  wrong.  They  were  not. 
They  were  like    the   flaming  swords  which  kept 


ii  INGRAM'S  MONOLOGUE  73 

Adam  and  Eve  out  of  the  garden.  Magnificent 
police  arrangements  in  Eden,  they  had.  I  heard 
his  breath  whistle  through  his  nose  like  the  wind 
at  a  keyhole.  He  says  "  You  mistake,  sir.  You 
forget.  Or  do  I  deserve  to  be  insulted  ?  "  I  told 
him  that  I  was  the  insulted  person  in  the  party, 
and  the  ladies  came  next.  I  swear  I  heard  a 
chuckle  behind  the  door.     That  I  swear  to.' 

Chevenix,  round-eyed  and  staring,  was  heard 
to  mutter,  ■  Good  old  Nevile  !  Well,  I'll  be  shot 
.   .  .  .'     Ingram  cut  short  his  tale. 

'  I  can't  go  into  what  followed.  Much  of  it 
was  irrelevant,  all  of  it  was  preposterous.  It  ended 
by  Mirza  directing  me  to  the  nearest  hotel,  in 
perfect  English.  The  crosser  he  got,  the  better 
his  English.  That's  odd,  you  know.  Of  course, 
I  chucked  the  chap.     He  lost  a  soft  billet.' 

There  were  no  comments  from  the  auditory, 
save  such  as  Mrs.  Wilmot's  eyes  may  have  afforded. 
She  sighed,  and  laid  her  hand  for  one  moment, 
caressingly,  upon  her  neck.  Her  rings  were 
certainly  superb. 

The  dessert  being  on  the  table,  Minnie  served 
the  old  brandy  and  retired.  Ingram  drank  of  it 
freely,  and  began  his  cigarette  the  moment  that 
the  coffee  and  spirit-flame  appeared.  The  ladies 
withdrew  to  the  drawing-room,  and  Mrs.  Wilmot 
sought  the  piano.  But  two  chords  had  not  been 
touched  before  her  eyes  found  those  of  Mrs. 
Devereux,  who  stood  by  the  fire.  Eyebrows 
exchanged  signals. 

Then  Mrs.  Devereux  said,  '  I  am  most  uncom- 
fortable,' and  Mrs.  Wilmot  sighed,  *I  know.' 


IV 

The  quiet  cause  of  discomfort,  slippered  and  loose- 
robed,  sat  meanwhile  in  an  easy-chair,  with  her 
feet  in  the  fender.  Her  hair  floated  free  about 
her  shoulders,  silky  from  the  brush.  She  had  a 
book  on  her  knees,  but  did  not  read  it.  Instead 
she  looked  into  the  fire,  frowning. 

Faint  lines  now  printed  themselves  upon  her 
face  ;  two  between  her  brows,  one  defining  the 
round  of  each  fair  cheek.  Her  eyes  showed 
fathomless  sapphire  :  whatever  her  thoughts  were 
of  they  held  the  secret  close.  Their  gaze  was  one 
of  fascination,  as  if  she  saw  things  in  the  fire 
terrible  and  strange,  figures  of  the  past  or  of  the 
future,  from  which  she  could  not  turn  her  face. 
The  curve  of  her  upper  lip,  where  it  lay  along  its 
fellow  and  made  a  dimpled  end,  sharpened  and 
grew  bleak.  Poring  and  smiling  into  the  fire,  she 
looked  like  a  Sibyl  envisaging  the  fate  of  men,  not 
concerned  in  it,  yet  absorbed,  interested  in  the 
play,  not  at  all  in  the  persons.  This  friend  of 
Mrs.  Benson,  this  midnight  mate  of  young 
gardeners,  disturber  of  high  ladies'  comfort,  serene 
controller  of  Wanless,  she  was,  it  would  seem, 
all  things  to  all  men,  as  men  could  take  her.  But 
now  she  had  the  fell  look  of  a  cat,  the  long,  sleek, 

74 


bk.Ii  SANCHIA  FACES  FATE  75 

cruel  smile,  the  staring  and  avid  eyes.  A  cat  she 
might  be,  playing  with  her  own  beating  heart, 
patting  it,  watching  its  throbs. 

These  moments  of  witchcraft  gazing  were  not 
many.  They  had  been  deliberately  begun,  and 
were  deliberately  done  with.  Within  their  span 
her  cares  were  faced  and  co-ordinated  ;  and  the 
business  over,  she  sighed  and  sank  more  snugly 
into  her  chair.  She  leaned  back  ;  her  hands  crossed 
themselves  on  her  lap  ;  she  shut  her  eyes.  All  the 
lines  upon  her  face  softened,  melted  away.  She 
looked  now  like  an  Oread  aswoon  in  the  midday 
heats,  pure  of  thought  or  dread  or  memory.  Her 
bosom  below  her  laces  rose  and  fell  gently.  She 
slept. 

Outside,  in  the  gusty  dark,  was  one  who  padded 
up  and  down  the  grass  on  noiseless  feet,  passing 
and  repassing  the  window,  with  an  eye  for  the 
narrow  chink  of  light. 

She  slept  for  a  very  short  time.  Towards  ten 
o'clock  she  awoke.  Collecting  herself  luxuriously, 
she  was  seen  to  face  her  facts  again.  Evidently 
they  held  her  eyes  waking  ;  they  were  dreadfully 
there,  still  unresolved  or  still  unpalatable.  Before 
them  now  she  plainly  quailed.  The  flush  of  her 
sleep  gave  delicacy  to  her  carven  beauty ;  she 
looked  fragile  and  tremulous  ;  it  would  seem  that 
a  little  more  pity  of  herself  would  bring  her  to 
tears.  As  if  she  knew  it,  she  took  her  measures, 
rose  abruptly,  and  after  two  turns  about  the  room 
went  to  a  safe,  opened  it,  and  plunged  herself  into 
the  ledger-book  which  she  took  from  it.     Upon 


76  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


that  and  a  cash -box — with  certain  involuntary- 
pauses,  in  which  her  eyes  concentrated  and  stared 
— she  remained  closely  engaged  until  half- past 
eleven. 

At  that  hour,  having  ascertained  it,  she  put  by 
her  work,  went  into  her  bedroom,  and  began  a 
deliberate  and  careful  toilet.  She  was  pale,  serious, 
and  evidently  rather  scared  at  herself;  she  lifted 
her  eyebrows  and  opened  wide  her  eyes.  But  she 
did  what  she  had  to  do  as  daintily  as  ever  Amina, 
in  the  Arab  tale,  fingered  her  rice.  A  person  of 
great  simplicity,  who  did  extraordinary  things  in 
an  ordinary  way,  at  the  hour  when  all  Wanless 
was  going  to  bed,  she  brushed  and  banded  her 
shining  hair,  and  dressed  herself  in  silk  and  lace  as 
for  a  dinner  party.  To  herself  in  the  glass  she 
gave  and  received  again  a  face  of  pure  pity 
and  sorrow.  She  saw  herself  lovely  and  love- 
worthy, sleek  under  the  caress  of  her  own  beauty. 
Yet  she  knew  exactly  what  she  was  about  to 
do,  and  how  she  would  do  it,  and  did  not  falter 
at  all. 

At  a  quarter  past  twelve  her  summons  came — a 
knock  at  the  door,  the  turning  of  the  handle,  the 
push  to  open,  and  Ingram's  voice.  *  Come  along, 
Sancie/  he  said,  and  went  away  without  any  more 
ceremony.  She  got  up  from  her  chair,  put  her 
book  down,  having  marked  her  place,  and  followed 
him  after  a  few  minutes'  meditation.  Ingram's 
quarters  were  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  house,  as 
hers  were,  but  in  the  opposite  wing.  She  had  two 
rooms  in  the  western  arm  of  the  E ;  the  whole  of 
the  eastern  was  his. 


ii  INGRAM  AT  HIS  REVELS  77 

He  was  at  tabic  when  she  came  in  and  shut 
the  door  behind  her,  at  a  table  fairly  naped,  with 
fine  glass,  silver,  and  flowers  upon  it.  There  was 
hothouse  fruit,  too,  a  melon,  a  little  pyramid  of 
strawberries  in  fig-leaves.  He  was  eating  smoked 
salmon  and  bread  and  butter  with  appetite.  By 
his  side,  half  empty,  was  a  champagne  glass.  A 
pint  bottle  stood  at  his  elbow. 

He  hailed  her  gaily,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  a 
*  Come  along/  and  a  lifted  glass.  Leaning  back 
as  she  came  on,  watching  and  waiting  for  her,  he 
stretched  out  his  left  arm.  She  smiled  rather 
conventionally,  did  not  meet  his  eyes,  but  came 
within  reach.  His  arm  encircled  her,  and  drew 
her  in.  *  Well,  my  girl,  well ! '  he  said,  glancing 
up,  laughing,  tempting  her  to  laugh.  She  looked 
down  gently,  blushing  a  little,  and  condescended 
to  him,  stooped  and  brushed  his  forehead  with  her 
lips.  Condescension  expresses  her  act.  It  was 
exactly  done  as  one  would  humour  an  importunate 
child,  excuse  its  childishness,  and  grant  it  its  desire 
of  the  moment. 

So  it  must  have  been  felt  by  him,  for  there  was 
a  sharp,  short  tussle  of  wills.  She  would  have  had 
him  contented,  but  he  was  not  so  to  be  contented. 
There  was  a  little  struggle,  much  silent  entreaty 
from  him,  much  consideration  from  her  above 
him — her  doubting,  judging,  discriminating  eyes, 
her  smile,  half-tender  and  half-scornful  ;  but  in  the 
end  he  kissed  her  lips,  the  more  ardently  for  their 
withholding.  Then  he  allowed  her  to  sit  by  the 
table,  not  far  off,  and  resumed  his  smoked  salmon 
and  his  zest.    She  declined  to  share  the  meal ;  was 


78  REST  HARROW  book 

neither  hungry  nor  thirsty,  she  said.  '  Have  your 
own  way,  my  dear/  he  concluded  the  match  ; 
'you'll  feel  all  the  better  for  it,  I  know/  She 
cupped  her  chin  in  her  hand,  and  watched  the  play 
of  knife  and  fork,  her  thoughts  elsewhere. 

'  Now,  Sancie,'  he  said  presently,  in  his  usual 
direct  manner,  '  how  long  is  it  since  I've  seen  you  ? ' 

She  answered  at  once,  without  looking  up,  *  A 
year  and  ten  days.' 

He  shook  his  head.  '  That's  too  long.  That's 
absurd.  I  don't  like  that  kind  of  thing,  as  a  man 
domestically  inclined.  But  I've  been  a  devil  of  a 
way.     I  wrote  to  you — from  where  ? ' 

'  From  Singapore,'  she  told  him. 

1  So  I  did.  I  remember.  But  I  went  to  Egypt 
before  that.  First-rate  place,  Egypt.  I  know  it 
well,  but  am  always  glad  to  be  there.  Fine  river 
of  its  own.  We  went  to  Khartoum,  and  two 
marches  beyond  ;  then  Singapore  and  the  Straits, 
Burmah,  Ceylon  ;  then  India.  Didn't  I  write  to 
you  from  India  ? ' 

1  Yes,'  she  told  him.  She  was  balancing  a  salt- 
spoon  idly  on  a  wine-glass,  and  seemed  scarcely  to 
listen.     He  rattled  on. 

*  Had  great  days  in  India.  Shooting,  fishing, 
pig-spearing ;  polo,  dances,  rajahs,  pretty  women, 
pow-wows  of  sorts,  and  a  chance  of  a  fight.  All 
in  a  year,  my  friend — I  beg  your  pardon — and  ten 
days.  Quick  work,  eh  ?  One  crowded  year  of 
glorious  life.     A  cycle  of  Cathay.' 

She  was  looking  at  her  saltspoon,  stretched 
beyond  her  the  length  of  her  arm.  *  I'm  sure  you 
were  very  happy.' 


II 


THE  BEST  OF  HER  79 

He  looked  at  her  directly.  ■  Oh,  I  was,  you 
know.  Otherwise,  I  guess  I  should  have  written. 
I  was  idiotically  happy.     And  you  ?  ' 

'I  was  busy,'  she  told  him,  *  idiotically  busy.' 
He  laughed  gaily. 

'  That's  one  for  me — and  a  shrewd  one.  Oh, 
you  deep-eyed  scamp  !  Sancie,  you  never  give 
yourself  away.  I've  noticed  that  many  and  many 
a  time.  And  not  I  only,  I  can  assure  you.  Bill 
Chevenix,  now — * 

Her  thoughts,  her  regard,  were  far  away  from  a 
world  of  Ingrams  and  Chevenixes.  She  may  have 
heard,  but  she  gave  no  sign.     He  rattled  on. 

*  Oh,  you're  splendid,  of  course  you're  splendid. 
The  comfort  of  you !  I  go  off  to  the  ends  of 
the  world — without  a  care  left  behind  me — or 
taken  with  me,  by  Jove !  No  bothers,  no 
worry — letters  opened,  the  right  ones,  answered 
and  done  with.  Letters  forwarded,  the  right  ones, 
unopened.  How  you  can  guess,  it  beats  me ! 
No  worry.  You  don't  ask  me  to  write  to  you — 
or  expect  it.  You  don't  write  to  me — and  / 
don't  expect  it.  You  know  me  just  as  I  know 
you.  There's  a  confidence,  a  certainty  about  you. 
That's  what's  so  splendid.  There  can't  be  a  girl 
in  the  world  like  you.'  He  clasped  her  in  triumph. 
*  My  Sancie  !  Back  I  come  at  the  end  of  my  time, 
and  everything's  in  apple-pie  order.  And  to 
crown  all,  there's  you  at  the  door,  to  welcome  me 
— and  wait  your  turn  —  and  wait  your  turn. 
Always  the  same — my  wise,  fine  Sanchia  ! '  He 
leaned  forward,  picked  up  and  held  her  hand. 
■  My  dear,  1  love  you,'  he  said,  and  jumped  up 


8o  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


and  kissed  her.  Then,  as  he  stood  above  her,  the 
triumphant  young  man,  with  the  hand  of  possession 
on  her  shoulder,  '  Upon  my  word/  he  declared  to 
the  assembled  universe,  '  this  is  a  very  satisfactory 
world,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.' 

When  he  was  seated  again,  and  invited  her  to 
talk  domestic  affairs,  she  returned  from  her  reverie, 
and  gathered  in  all  her  self-possession.  The 
estate,  the  household,  the  parish,  the  county : 
there  was  no  mistaking  his  interest  in  these  matters. 
He  was  interested  in  the  smallest  particulars  :  her 
broods  of  young  chicks,  her  pigeons,  the  tabby 
cat's  kittens,  the  Rector's  baby.  He  asked  search- 
ing questions.  How  many  cows  were  in  milk  just 
now  ;  when  would  Menzies  have  asparagus  fit  to 
eat  ?  The  servants — was  all  well  there  ?  Their 
young  men?  Nothing  escaped  him.  She  was 
quite  ready  for  him,  took  a  dry  tone,  showed  a 
slight  sense  of  the  humour  of  the  situation,  de- 
scended to  trifles,  had  statistics  at  her  fingers'  ends. 
She  met  him,  in  a  word,  as  he  wished  to  be  met, 
as  jointly  concerned  in  these  minute  affairs. 

He  lit  a  cigar,  and  drew  her  to  the  fire.  He 
would  have  had  her  on  his  knee,  but  she  would 
not.  She  sat  on  a  straight  chair  beside  his  easy 
one,  and  allowed  him  to  play  with  her  hand. 

He  talked  now  in  jerks,  between  puffs,  of  his 
adventures  ;  his  first  shot  at  a  tiger,  some  trouble 
with  hillmen  at  Peshawur,  a  row  at  a  mess-table, 
in  which  two  chaps  lost  their  heads,  and  one  his 
papers.  He  had  been  present  as  a  guest,  but  had 
kept  well  in  the  background.  There  had  been  a 
lot  of  drinking  done — luckily  he  was  all   right. 


II 


INGRAM  RATTLES  ON  81 


He  had  a  good  head,  you  see  ;  could  carry  a  lot 
of  stuff. 

He  had,  by  the  way,  ■  picked  up '  that  little 
Mrs.  Wilmot  on  board  ship.  She  was  coming 
home  in  the  convoy  of  Mrs.  Devereux.  Of 
course  he  had  known  Mrs.  Devereux  for  years  ; 
she  was  an  institution.  The  little  Wilmot  person 
was  a  widow,  it  seemed.  Niceish  sort  of  young 
woman  ;  knew  the  Trenchards  up  here,  was  a 
kind  of  cousin  of  Lady  Trenchard's.  In  fact, 
she  was  going  on  to  them  from  here  ;  but  not  due 
for  a  week  or  so.  She  had,  you  might  say,  asked 
to  be  asked,  or  spelled  for  it  out  of  those  eyes  of 
hers.  You  get  awfully  friendly  on  board  ship, 
you  must  know.  You  can  say  anything — and  do 
most  things — oh,  all  sorts  of  things  !  He  had  no 
objection — to  her  coming,  he  meant ;  indeed,  he 
rather  liked  the  young  party.  He  thought 
Chevenix  did,  too.  But  Chevenix  was  very  much 
at  Sanchia's  disposal  ;  *  he  talked  a  lot  about  seeing 
you  again,  my  girl.'  To  meet  him  again  might 
carry  her  mind  back — how  long  ?  Eight  stricken 
years.  Was  it  possible  that  she — he  and  she — had 
been  here  together  eight  years  ?  Yes,  he  could 
see  that  she  remembered.     Dear,  sweet  Sancie  ! 

There  was  bravado  here  on  his  part,  and 
nervousness  to  be  discerned  beneath  it ;  for  it  is 
most  certain  that  her  reverie  was  not  exactly  as  he 
would  have  it.  Her  chin  was  in  her  hand,  her 
caught  other  hand  lay  idle  in  his  own  ;  her  eyes 
were  far-gazing  and  sombre  ;  her  smile  was  bleak. 
Whatever  she  heard,  whatever  she  thought  of,  she 
betrayed  nothing. 


82  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


Her  brooding  calm  spurred  him  in  that  sensi- 
tive spot  whose  throb  or  ache  tells  a  man  whether 
he  is  centre  of  a  woman's  mind  or  not.  He  must 
know  whether  she  was  glad  to  have  him  back  ; 
the  wanderer  returned,  eh?  She  had  not  told 
him  so  yet,  he  must  observe  ;  no,  nor  looked  it. 
She  was  mysterious,  it  seemed  to  him.  *  And  you 
can  speak  with  your  eyes,  my  dear  ;  none  better. 
Your  tongue  was  never  very  loose  ;  but  your  eyes  ! 
Now,  you  know  what  you  can  do  with  them,  Sancie  ; 
you  know  very  well.  Speak  to  me,  then,  my  dear, 
speak  to  me.  Speak  to  me  only  with  thine  .  .  . 
no,  not  only  !  You  can  speak  in  a  thousand  ways 
— with  your  hands,  with  the  tips  of  your  fingers 
placed  here  or  there,  with  a  bend  of  the  head  on 
that  lovely  neck  you  have,  with  your  faint  colour, 
with  your  quick  breath/  .  .    . 

Fired  by  his  own  words,  he  worked  himself 
into  enthusiasm,  was  enamoured  of  what  himself 
proclaimed.  '  My  beautiful — my  goddess  !  ■  he 
called  her,  and  drew  her  to  his  heart. 

And  she  allowed  him,  allowed  herself  to  be 
pressed  there,  while  within  her  the  dull  fire 
smouldered,  and  the  deep,  slow  resentment 
gathered  like  clouds  about  the  sun.  But  he  held 
her  face  now  between  his  two  hands  and  forced  to 
meet  his  own  her  unresponsive  eyes  ;  and  when 
with  ardour  he  had  kissed  her  grave  lips,  the 
flippancy  of  a  fool  ruined  him,  and  his  triumph 
was  flattened  into  dust,  as  when  one  crushes  a 
puff-ball. 

He  suddenly  held  her  at  arms'  length  as  he 
was  struck  by  an  idea.     '  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  forgot,' 


n  A  DEAD  WOMAN  83 

he  said,  and  looked  vaguely  across  the  room. 
1  Claire  is  dead.' 

Sanchia's  eyes  concentrated  and  paled.  The 
pupils  of  them  were  specks.  She  paled  to  the 
lips,  then  slowly  flooded  as  with  a  tide  of  sanguine. 
She  withdrew  herself  from  him  ;  simply  dropped 
him  off  her.  She  said  nothing  ;  but  she  watched 
him  steadily,  while  within  her  the  masked  fire 
gleamed  and  fitfully  leapt. 

Bravado  made  him  hold  on  to  his  airy  tone. 
*  She  died,  I'm  told,  at  Messina,  some  time  in 
March.  I  heard  it  at  Marseilles.  Met  a  man 
who  told  me.     Yes  !     She's  dead — and  buried.' 

Sanchia  had  nothing  to  say.  She  looked,  how- 
ever, towards  the  door — and  he  detected  that. 
Her  silence  spread  about  the  room,  caught  him 
and  enveloped  him.  That  she  was  calculating 
how  long  it  would  be  before  she  could  escape  by 
that  door  was  absolutely  clear,  and  the  frost  of 
her  silence  struck  down  upon  him  so  that  he 
could  not  gainsay  her  purpose.  He  paused 
irresolute,  glancing  askance  at  her  directed  eyes. 
Then  he  gave  in,  left  her,  opened  the  door  for 
her.  She  went  out,  folded  in  her  own  mystery, 
but  as  she  went  by  him  he  caught  up  her  hand, 
and  kissed  the  fingers.  They  were  very  cold,  and 
made  him  shiver. 

1  Good-night,  my  dear,'  he  said,  all  his  dash 
gone  out  of  him. 

She  said  good-night  very  simply  and  went 
away.  He  looked  after  her  until  she  had  turned 
the  corridor,  then  went  to  the  table  and  poured 
himself  brandy  and  soda-water,  drank  deeply,  and 


84  REST  HARROW  bookh 

set  down  the  tumbler  with  a  crash.     *  By  God  ! 
I  am  a  fool,'  he  told  himself. 

From  the  garden  that  narrow  chink  of  light 
which  shone  through  Ingram's  shutter  was  seen  to 
collapse  by  one  who  watched  it.  Shortly  after- 
wards, that  same  haunter  of  the  dark  saw  a 
shining  slit  part  the  shutters  of  a  window  in  the 
west  wing,  and  sighed,  short  and  quick.  He 
returned,  to  prowl  among  the  secret  flowers. 


When,  after  dinner,  Mrs.  Devereux  had  told  her 
young  friend  that  she  was  uncomfortable,  there 
had  been  no  need  of  the  words  ;  but  the  slow 
answering  *  I  know '  with  which  Mrs.  Wilmot 
expressed  sympathy  was  not  intended  to  imply 
that  she  shared  the  feeling.  She  herself  was  not 
at  all  uncomfortable,  because,  while  she  saw  the 
whole  state  of  affairs,  she  was  not  unhopeful  of 
coping  with  it.  Touching  the  place  where  the 
tender  point  of  her  breast  lay  nestling,  she  assured 
herself  that  she  could  hope.  But  Mrs.  Devereux, 
moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised,  was  incensed. 
Nothing  that  followed  during  the  next  few  days 
served  to  clear  the  surcharged  air.  It  is  hard  to 
say  what  vexed  her  most,  where  all  was  as  it  should 
not  be.  Ingram,  bluntly  unconscious  of  her  suf- 
ferings, gloomed  over  his  own  ;  Chevenix  spied 
about  for  what  he  could  not  find,  spy  as  he  would, 
and  made  the  cause  of  woe  more  conspicuous  than 
ever.  As  for  her,  the  disastrous  fair,  the  delibera- 
tion with  which  she  went  about  her  duties,  and 
ease  with  which  she  did  or  caused  them  to  be 
done  ;  her  self-possession,  gentleness,  suavity,  yes  ! 
and  benevolence,  were  sights  to  make  angels  weep. 
Tears    of  blood  !       If  Mrs.    Devereux,    by   any 

85 


86  REST  HARROW  book 

means,  could  have  compassed  tears  of  blood,  they 
had  been  shed.  Nothing  less  vivid  would  have 
met  the  case  :  to  exhibit  her  scarlet  handkerchief 
to  Ingram  with  a  *  There,  see,  I  weep.  Tears  of 
blood  ! '  Day  by  day  in  that  mild  spring  weather, 
under  pale  blue  skies,  fanned  by  zephyrs,  she 
could  but  pace  the  terrace  walks,  and  stiffen  her- 
self, and  stare  about  her — with  dull  disapproval  for 
the  very  flowers,  lest  theirs,  too,  should  be  frail 
beauty,  and  repeat  for  her  only  comfort  that  she 
was  most  uncomfortable.  So  she  was.  But  it 
was  because  she  did  not  understand,  not  because 
she  did.     Curiosity  ravaged  her. 

On  one  of  these  days,  breakfast  over  at  half-past 
ten,  young  Mr.  Chevenix  declared  his  intention 
with  cheerfulness  and  point.  *  Twentieth  of  April 
— Dizzy's  birthday,  or  Shakespeare's.  Nevile, 
I'm  going  to  fish  your  river.  They  are  leaping 
like  the  boys  in  Eugene  Aram>  and  I'm  going  to 
give  them  something  to  leap  at.  Now,  what  are 
all  you  people  going  to  do  ?  Because,  I'll  be  free 
with  you,  I  don't  want  you  to  come  and  look  on. 
Mrs.  Devereux,  I  let  you  off.  You  needn't  gillie 
me.  Nevile,  you  run  away  and  play.  Amuse  Mrs. 
Wilmot.     Do  now  :  she  likes  it.     I'm  all  right.' 

The  elder  lady  fixed  him  keenly  with  a  look 
which  saw  through  his  saucy  assurance  ;  Ingram's 
eyes  sought  those  of  Mrs.  Wilmot  across  the  table. 
She  lent  him  their  wonder  for  a  moment,  then 
looked  down  at  her  bosom.  He  was  satisfied. 
There  were  still  women  in  the  world. 

*  What  shall  we  do  ?  '  he  asked  her.  '  Will 
you    be   driven?      Will    you    drive?     Will   you 


ii  CHEVENIX  A-FISHING  87 

ride  ? '  Another  shaft  rewarded  him,  which  said, 
*  Do  with  me  as  you  will.' 

Ingram  rang  the  bell.  Minnie  appeared. 
'Tell  Frodsham,  the  horses  at  a  quarter  past 
eleven.  I  ride  Sea-King,  Mrs.  Wilmot  Lorna 
Doone.  He  had  better  come — or  Butters  will 
do.     That's  all/ 

Mrs.  Devereux  had  been  ignored,  but  was  not 
displeased.  It  showed,  at  least,  that  Ingram  knew 
she  was  not  to  be  disposed  of  like  a  white  rabbit. 
It  was,  however,  necessary  to  say  something,  to 
declare  one's  presence,  as  it  were  ;  so  she  collected 
her  papers.  *  I  have  letters  to  write.  You  will 
excuse  me,  I  know.' 

Chevenix  sprang  to  the  door.  *  By  George,  I 
should  think  so,'  he  said,  which  was  well  intended, 
but  too  brisk.  He  bowed  her  out,  shut  her  out, 
and  stood  with  his  eyes  on  the  others. 

Ingram  remained  before  the  fire  looking  out  of 
window.     ■  She's  in  a  wax.     I  don't  know  why.' 

'  Oh,  don't  you,  my  boy  ? '  said  Chevenix  to 
himself. 

Mrs.  Wilmot  trifled  with  a  teaspoon.  'And 
I  don't  care — much,'  he  added.  Mrs.  Wilmot 
smiled. 

Mr.  Chevenix,  going  a-fishing,  saw,  as  he  had 
intended  to  see,  Sanchia  in  the  rose-garden,  talk- 
ing to  Struan  Glyde,  who  was  tying  ramblers. 
'  Morning,  Sanchia — morning,  Glyde  !  '  Each 
greeted  him,  but  the  youth  grimly. 

He  talked  at  large.  ■  I'm  for  murder.  I  must 
flesh    my  steel.      It's   too  good    a  day  to   lose. 


88  REST  HARROW  book 

Clouds  scurry,  sun  is  shy ;  air's  balmy  :  a  trout 
must  die.  That  is  very  nearly  poetry,  Sancie.  It 
is  as  near  poetry  as  I  can  hope  to  get  this  side  the 
harps  and  quires.  Now,  what  on  earth  is  Glyde 
doing  to  his  roses  at  this  time  of  year  ?  ' 

The  dark-skinned,  sharp-chinned  young  man, 
aproned  and  shirt-sleeved,  turned  a  shade  darker. 
His  black  eyes  glowed.  He  was  quietly  arrogant, 
even  to  her.  *  It  doesn't  matter/  he  had  once 
told  her,  ■  what  you  say  or  do.  I  love  you,  and 
that's  the  sum  and  end  of  it.'  Now  he  allowed 
her  to  answer  for  him. 

c  There  was  a  wind  in  the  night  which  tore 
them  about.  I  asked  him  to  make  them  safe.  I 
hate  to  think  of  their  bruised  ribs.' 

Chevenix  whistled  his  satisfaction  with  this  and 
all  things  else.  '  I  see.  Works  of  mercy.  There's 
a  blessing  on  that,  somewhere  and  somewhen.  All 
to  the  good,  you  know,  Glyde.  You  never  know 
your  luck,  they  tell  me.'  He  left  Glyde  and  his 
roses,  and  turned  to  the  young  lady.  *  Well  now, 
look  here,  Sancie — if  works  of  mercy  are  toward, 
what  d'you  say  to  one  on  your  own  account  ? 
Here  I  stand,  an  orphan  boy,  upon  my  honour. 
The  master's  gone  riding  with  the  widow.'  He 
stopped  his  rattle,  as  a  thought  struck  him  serious 
for  a  moment.  ?  By  George,  and  he's  a  widower 
— so  he  is ! '  Discharged  of  that,  he  resumed — 
'  Yes,  and  Mrs.  Devereux  has  got  the  hump,  as 
they  say — and  here  I  am  at  your  mercy,  to  be 
made  much  of.  Who's  going  to  admire  me  ? 
Who's  going  to  hold  my  net  ?  Who's  going  to 
say,  "  Oh,  what  a  beauty  !  "  '     He  had  now  got  her 


ii  SANCHIA  AT  EASE  89 

thoroughly  at  her  old  ease  with  him.  Her  eyes 
gleamed,  and  there  was  no  doubting  her  smile. 
*  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what.  Your  roses  are  all 
right.  Glyde  will  see  to  that.  You  leave  that 
to  Glyde  and  his  strong  right  arm.  His  strength 
is  as  the  strength  of  ten,  because  .  .  .  you  follow 
me,  I  think  ?  Now,  Sancie,  I  put  it  to  you — I'm 
an  old  friend  of  the  family,  and  haven't  seen  you 
for — how  many  years  ?  Aren't  you  going  to  give 
me  half  an  hour  of  your  morning  ? ' 

He  pleaded  by  looks.  He  was  quizzical,  but 
in  earnest.     Her  brow  was  clear. 

*  Yes,'  she  said.     'I'll  come — for  half  an  hour.' 

*  Right !  Right,  goddess  of  the  silver  brake. 
Come,  hold  the  pass  with  me.'  He  turned  to  go, 
and  she  caught  him  up.  4 1  mix  my  poets  like 
salad,  but  that's  because  I'm  in  such  high  spirits. 
By  Jove,  Sancie,  it  is  good  to  see  you  again.'  She 
met  his  laughing  eyes  with  hers.  She  swam  by  his 
side — took  his  net,  and  was  happy.  Her  face 
glowed.  She  had  the  power  of  casting  troubles 
behind,  recuperative  power,  resiliency.  Glyde,  the 
olive-faced,  watched  them  down  the  walk,  and 
owned  to  a  heart  of  lead.  '  As  well  shut  down  the 
west  wind  as  a  spirit  like  hers ! '  He  turned  to 
his  affair. 

Below  the  steps,  in  the  nut-walk  which  led  to 
the  bridge,  Chevenix  altered  his  tone.  '  It's  good 
of  you  to  come  with  me,  Sancie,  my  dear.  I'm  a 
very  friendly  beggar,  and  Nevile,  you  know — I 
say  ! '  and  he  turned  her  a  sober  face — '  You 
know,  I  suppose  ?  His  wife — eh  ?  Dead,  you 
know.     Oh,  but  of  course  you  did  ! ' 


9o  REST  HARROW  book 

She  met  him  unfalteringly.     *  Yes,  he  told  me.' 

Chevenix  shrugged.  *  I  must  say,  you  know — 
what  ?  Oh,  of  course,  it  was  a  ghastly  affair  all 
along.  But  you  know  all  that,  as  well  as  I  do. 
Why,  her  temper !  Oh,  awful !  I've  seen  her 
myself  dead-white  in  one  of  her  rages — she  had 
hold  of  a  wine-glass  so  hard  that  it  snapped,  and 
cut  her  hand.  She  looked  at  the  blood — she 
didn't  know  how  it  happened.  And  he — well,  you 
ought  to  know — was  as  bad,  in  his  way.  Ton  my 
soul,  Sancie,  Vesuvius  might  just  as  well  have 
married  Etna — every  bit.  But  there !  What's 
the  good  of  talking  !  Everybody  knew  how  it 
would  be.'  Words  failing  him,  he  stared  about 
him. 

*  But  still — oh,  damn  it  all !  To  hear  of  your 
wife's  death — casually — on  a  platform — from  a 
chap  you  happen  to  know — happen  to  have  met 
somewhere — oh,  well,  I  call  it  casual.  That's  the 
word,  I  believe — casual.  Well,  it  is  pretty  casual 
— what?  Now,  just  tell  me  what  you  think — 
between  friends,  of  course.' 

She  stopped  him  :  she  was  short  in  the  breath. 
*  I  think  not.      If  you  don't  mind.' 

He  became  as  serious,  immediately,  as  he  was 
capable  of  being.  ■  I'll  do  as  you  like,  my  dear — 
but  you'll  let  me  say  this,  that  if  I  could  see  you 
with  all  your  belongings  about  you  again,  I  should 
sing  a  hymn.  That's  all,  Sancie  ;  but  it  means  a 
lot.  When  you  went  out  of  Great  Cumberland 
Place,  it  became,  somehow,  another  kind  of  place. 
I  hardly  ever  go  there  now,  you  know.  And  now 
they're  all  married  but  you,  and — I  say,  you  heard 


ii  SHE  ASKS  REPRIEVE  91 

that  Vicky  had  a  son  and  heir  ?  Did  you  hear 
that  ? ' 

She  had  averted  her  face,  but  she  listened 
intensely,  nodding  her  head.  'Yes,  yes,  I  knew 
that.  Papa  told  me.  He  always  writes  to  me, 
you  know ;  from  the  office,  poor  darling  ! ' 

She  appealed  to  him  urgently.  4  Please  don't 
talk  about  them  just  yet.     Please  don't.' 

He  saw  the  mist  in  her  eyes,  and  was  afraid. 
*  All  right,  Sancie,  all  right.  I'm  frightfully  sorry. 
Beastly  painful  all  this,  you  know.'  He  was  much 
disturbed.  To  his  simple  soul  a  fine  day,  a  fine- 
fettled  river  demanded,  as  of  right,  a  happy  mood 
in  man,  for  whom  all  things  were  made.  And  a 
fine  girl  by  his  side,  a  good,  a  brave,  a  splendid  girl 
— down  on  her  luck — on  such  a  day !  What  could 
one  do  ?  If,  when  you  began,  she  choked  you  off! 
Wouldn't  meet  you  half-way — bottled  it  up !  And 
here  he  was,  geared  for  fishing,  and  without  the 
heart  to  wet  a  line,  because  of  all  this  misery. 
Sanchia,  sharply  in  profile  to  him,  from  cheek  to 
chin,  from  shoulder  to  low  breast,  all  one  sinuous, 
lax,  beautiful  line,  broke  in  on  his  rueful  medita- 
tions.    *  There's  a  rise,'  she  said.     *  Look,  look.' 

His  eye  swept  the  river.  '  You're  right.  By 
Gad,  that's  a  whacker.  That's  a  fish.  Now,  you 
stop  just  where  you  are,  net  in  hand.  Don't  move, 
and  you  shall  see  something.' 

He  left  her,  and  ran  stooping  down  the  bank, 
all  his  little  soul  concentrated  in  his  cast.  The 
dimpled  water  ran  and  swirled,  the  line  flashed  in 
the  sun.  Three  casts,  four  ;  a  splash,  a  taut  line, 
and  his  shout,  *  Come  on,  quick  ;  I've  got  him.' 


92  REST  HARROW  book 

Sanchia  glided  swiftly  down  the  bank,  her  eyes 
alight,  the  lines  of  neck  and  shoulder  finely  alert. 
Her  eyes  shone,  her  lips  parted  ;  she  looked  the 
Divine  Huntress  to  whom  Senhouse  had  once 
likened  her.  She  stooped,  the  net  jerked  ;  she 
watched,  waited,  tense  to  the  act.  Within  the 
swirling  water  the  great  fish  plunged :  she  watched, 
strung  to  the  pounce  ;  the  net  dipped  and  darted  ; 
she  lifted  it  to  land. 

Chevenix  admired.  '  By  George,  you  are  a 
one-er,  I  must  say  !  Born  to  it.  You  strike  like 
an  osprey.  That's  a  fish — what  ? '  They  peered 
together  into  the  net,  where,  coiled  and  massy, 
beaming  rose  and  pale  gold,  the  trout  writhed. 

'  Splendid  ! '  breathed  Sanchia,  glowing  and 
alight. 

Chevenix  gloried  in  her  beauty.  *  If  Nevile 
don't  know  what  his  chances  are — if  he  ain't  on 
his  knees — my  heavens,  what  a  mate  for  a  chap  !  ' 

A  shadow  falling  upon  him  caused  him  to  look 
up.  Mrs.  Devereux,  grey  and  tall,  boa'd,  gloved, 
umbrella'd,  stood  regarding  him  and  his  com- 
panion from  the  bank.  Instinct  prompted  him 
immediately  to  screen  Sanchia  by  dragging  her 
into  the  party.  He  held  up  the  net  and  plunged. 
'  First  prize,'  he  cried  out,  as  heart  fully  as  he 
could,  'to  me  and  Miss  Percival.' 

4  So  I  see,'  said  Mrs.  Devereux.  '  Ah,  good 
morning.' 

This  was  to  Sanchia's  bland  greeting,  which,  as 
always,  made  the  lady  shiver.  It  is  difficult  to 
say  what  a  shock  it  was  to  her  to  be  greeted 
cheerfully  by  Sanchia.     To  see  one  in  so  painful 


ii  CHEVENIX'S  BEST  93 

a  situation  occupied  by  anything  less  painful, 
interested  in  anything  at  all,  was  truly  shock- 
ing. Mrs.  Devereux's  idea  of  irregularity  was 
that  it  absorbed  the  devoted  victim,  kept  her 
aghast.  If  it  did  not,  surely,  there  was  no  reward 
left  to  the  virtuous.  But  here  we  had  a  highly 
irregular  young  woman  behaving  with  extreme 
regularity.  Was  the  world  turning  upside  down  ? 
Was  black,  then,  really  white  ?  She  shivered,  she 
blinked  her  eyes  ;  but  she  descended  the  bank  and 
stood  beside  the  pair,  yet  rigidly  apart. 

Chevenix,  having  got  her  there,  knew  not 
what  to  do  with  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  better,  on  the  whole,  go  on,  so  turned  the 
lady  a  knowing  face. 

*  This  is  not  the  first  time  by  any  means  that 
Miss  Percival  and  I  have  gone  fishing,  you  must 
know.  We  began  by  tickling  'em — we  were 
urchins  together,  you  see.' 

4  Really ! '  said  Mrs.  Devereux,  who  still  saw 
nothing  but  depravity. 

*  I  remember,'  he  went  on,  *  the  first  time  we 
went  fishing.  I  was  at  Alnmouth  with  a  governess ; 
awful  lonely  little  beggar  I  was.  I  used  to  moon 
about  on  the  sands,  while  she  read  the  Morning 
Post,  with  spectacles  and  a  red  parasol.  And  I 
used  to  hanker  about  all  the  other  young  'uns, 
and  wish  I  was  one  of  'em.  Her  party  was  there, 
you  know — five  of  'em,  all  girls  and  all  pretty 
girls — eh,  Sancie  ?  I  would  have  given  my 
hopes  of  heaven — if  I'd  had  any,  you  know — to 
go  and  paddle  with  'em.  Jolly  party  you  were, 
my  dear — jolly  old  plump  papa,  rosy  mamma — 


94  REST  HARROW  book 

and  Philippa  like  a  young  tree,  and  Melusine  and 
Hawise  bright  as  apples  ;  and  then  Vicky  and 
you — little  dears,  you  were.  I  was  like  a  spent 
salmon,  I  believe,  lantern-jawed,  hollow-eyed  little 
devil,  as  solitary  as  sin.'  He  turned,  flushed,  to 
Sanchia,  and  put  his  hand  on  her  arm  ;  she  turned 
away  her  face,  and  Mrs.  Devereux  believed  she 
saw  tears.  '  It  was  you  who  took  me  in,  you 
know.' 

'No/  said  Sanchia,  turning  him  her  shining 
eyes.  '  It  was  Vicky.  She  asked  you  to  come 
fishing.'     He  accepted  her  ruling. 

'  Bless  me,  it  was  Vicky.  Always  a  frisky  one. 
But  after  that  it  was  always  you  and  Vicky  and 
me.  And  we  had  the  time  of  our  lives — at  least, 
I  did/  Even  Mrs  Devereux  felt  an  emotion  from 
the  beam  with  which  Sanchia  rewarded  him — a 
tender,  compassionate  look,  as  if  she  understood 
and  excused  him. 

'  You  are  old  friends,  1  see/  she  said  ;  and  her 
smile  was  not  unfriendly. 

Chevenix  shook  his  head  wisely.  '  Frightfully 
old — Fve  known  'em  all — all  my  life.'  Mrs. 
Devereux  then  made  a  distinct  advance. 

'  It  must  be  very  nice  for  you/  she  said  to 
Sanchia. 

Sanchia's  eyes  were  now  clear,  and  her  smile 
absolutely  general.  *  To  see  Mr.  Chevenix  ? 
Yes,  indeed/  She  collected  herself.  *  But  I'm 
afraid  I  must  go  now.  I've  a  great  deal  to  do.' 
She  admonished  the  young  man.  '  Now  you  had 
better  catch  some  more,'  she  told  him.  '  I  must 
go-' 


,i  MRS.  DEVEREUX  AT  IT  95 

His  face  fell — without  any  regard  for  Mrs. 
Devereux — to  *  Oh,  I  say ! '  but  it  was  then 
revealed  to  him  that  there  might  be  a  part  for 
him  to  play.  c  Right,  Sancie — you're  mistress 
here.  See  you  later/  He  met  her  eyes  gallantly, 
and  lifted  his  hat.  Sanchia  bent  her  head  to  Mrs. 
Devereux,  and  went  staidly  away,  her  duties 
gathering  in  her  brows.  The  elder  lady  and  the 
young  man  stood  face  to  face  without  speaking. 
Then  Mrs.  Devereux  sat  deliberately  down,  and 
Chevenix  braced  himself. 

1  You  said  just  now,'  the  lady  began,  ■  to  Miss 
Percival,  that  she  was  mistress  here.  What  did 
you  mean  by  that,  exactly  ?  ' 

Chevenix  sprang  sideways  to  this  flank  attack. 
1  Oh,  you  know,  Mrs.  Devereux  !  you  can't  take 
a  chap — literally — what  ? ' 

He  wanted  time ;  but  she  gave  him  none. 
1  You  must  forgive  an  old  woman  of  the  world — 
of  a  certain  world.  I  come  here — to  a  house  which 
belonged  to  Nevile's  father,  an  old,  old  friend,  and 
I  find — installed — a  young  lady — who  does  not 
dine — who  is  extremely  capable.  I  am  bewildered, 
naturally/ 

Chevenix's  *  I  know,  I  know,'  and  his  friendly 
nods  ran  on  as  an  accompaniment. 

*  And  then,'  said  she,  raising  her  voice,  *  I  find 
that  this  young  lady — and  you — are  old  friends. 
You  speak  of  her — people — as  if  they  were  really 
— of  the  sort  which — as  if  she  were — of  the  kind 
— whom — '  It  was  impossible.  *  Really,'  she  said, 
1  it's  most  unusual,  I  don't  frankly  know  what  I 
ought  to  do.' 


96  REST  HARROW  book 

Chevenix  listened  carefully  to  her  truncated 
phrases,  where  what  she  did  not  say  was  the  most 
eloquent  part  of  her  discourse.  He  nodded  freely 
and  sagely ;  he  was  conciliatory,  but  clear  in 
opinion.  'I  know,  I  know,' he  said.  *  It's  very 
rum — you  must  naturally  find  it  so.  I  know 
exactly  how  you  feel  about  it.  Oh,  rum's  the 
only  word  for  it.  Or  rummy.  Yes,  you  might 
call  it  rummy — or  a  go,  you  know — or  anything 
like  that.'  Then  he  grew  plausible.  '  But  I'm 
sure  it's  all  right.  It's  a  long  story,  but  I'm  quite 
sure.  You've  no  idea  what  a  fine  girl  that  is. 
Ah,  but  I  know  it.'  He  tapped  his  forehead.  '  I 
saw  the  whole  thing  through — from  beginning  to 
end.     She's  a  perfect  beauty,  to  begin  with.' 

That  was  a  bad  note.  Mrs.  Devereux  asked 
him  at  once  if  he  thought  that  a  good  reason. 
'  Well,'  he  said,  '  I  do,  you  know — in  a  way.  I 
can't  explain  it — but  I  think  you  see  it  in  her  face, 
you  know — and  manner.  Yes,  in  her  manner. 
She's  uncommon,  you  see,  most  uncommon.  And 
as  cool  as — well,  it  would  be  hard  to  say  how  cool 
a  hand  I  thought  her.'  He  paused,  having  got  off 
this  effective  estimate,  round-eyed  and  triumphant. 

'  It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Chevenix,'  said  the  dry 
lady,  *  that  the  less  you  say  the  better.' 

'  Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Devereux,  not  at  all.'  He 
was  eager  to  explain.  *  I  don't  think  you  quite 
follow  me.  What  I  meant  to  say  was,  that  when 
a  young  woman  can  be  as  cool  as  she  can  be  ;  can 
run  a  big  place  like  this,  and  manage  a  staff  of 
servants, — outdoors,  mind  you,  and  in ;  no  steward, 
only  a  bailiff ;  keep  all  the  accounts  ;  and  hold  her 


ii  DID  SHE  ?  97 

head  up — for  she  does  that,  you  know,  uncommonly 
well ;  why,  then  I  say  that  she  must  be  allowed 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  you  know.  You  must 
say,  "  Well,  it's  rum,  it's  rummy,"  or  how  you  like 
to  put  it — u  but  she's  got  a  head  on  her  shoulders, 
and  I  suppose  she  knows  what  she's  doing.  I 
suppose  she's  seen  her  way."  For  she's  all  right, 
you  know,  Mrs.  Devereux  ;  she's  as  right  as  rain. 
It's  irregular,  dashed  irregular — but,  by  George, 
I'll  tell  you  this,  Nevile  was  in  a  bad  way  when 
he  first  met  her  ;  and  she's  pulled  him  through. 
He's  steady  enough  now,  is  Nevile.  Don't  drink 
— nor  do  other  things.  He  threatened  to  be  a 
waster  in  his  day  ;  but  he's  no  waster  now.  She 
did  that,  you  know  ;  she  pulled  him  through. 
Why,  bless  your  heart,  Mrs.  Devereux,  he  used  to 
rave  about  her — rave,  and  chuck  himself  about  on 
sofas,  and  cry  like  anything,  and  bite  his  nails 
down.  There  never  was  such  a  girl  under  heaven, 
he  used  to  say.  He  called  her  a  goddess.  Love ! 
Oh,  Lord  !  And  I  assure  you,  on  my  solemn 
oath,  that  he  never  did  a  better  day's  work  in  his 
life,  nor  any  girl  a  finer,  than  when  he  put  in  his 
word  for  himself,  poor  devil,  and  she  said,  "  Yes, 
I'll  do  it." ' 

1  Did  she — '  Mrs.  Devereux  asked,  or  began 
to  ask,  and  he  shrugged,  and  exclaimed, 

*  Ah  !  There  you  have  me.  Now  you've  done 
it.  I  don't  know.  That's  the  fact — I  don't  know. 
Everybody  thought  so.  She  went  on  as  if  she 
did  ;  but  now, — no,  I  don't  know.  You  see,  she's 
such  a  cool  hand,  she's  such  a  deep  one — you  can't 
tell.     There's  no  telling  with  that  sort.     All  I  can 

H 


98  REST  HARROW  book 

say  is,  it  looked  uncommonly  like  the  real  thing. 
We  all  thought  so  at  the  time.  The  symptoms 
were  right  enough — or  wrong  enough,  you'll  say — 
and  then,  look  at  her  since  !  She's  stuck  to  him 
through  everything  —  good  report,  bad  report, 
everything.  She's  chucked  her  people — or  been 
chucked.  Had  four  beautiful  sisters — glowing,  up- 
standing, fine  girls,  all  of  them ;  and  chucked.  Old 
father,  in  the  City  :  chucked.  Mother,  big,  hand- 
some, hot-tempered :  chucked.  And  all  for  Nevile, 
who  (between  ourselves)  ain't  worth  it.  He's  not 
a  bad  one,  but  he's  not  a  good  one,  either.  He's 
got  a  cruel  temper,  Nevile  has — like  that  ghastly 
wife  of  his.  But — '  he  cried,  opening  his  arms 
— ?  there  you  are.  They're  like  that,  her  sort. 
Mighty  quiet  about  it,  you  know ;  was  turned  into 
the  streets,  you  may  say  ;  father,  mother,  sisters, 
all  showed  their  backs.  What  does  she  do  ?  Sets 
her  teeth  together,  looks  straight  ahead,  and  takes 
old  Nevile.  And  here  she  is  now — oh,  as  right  as 
rain.     What  a  girl,  eh  ?  ■ 

Mrs.  Devereux  was  certainly  moved.  She  was 
almost  prepared  to  admit  a  genuinely  exceptional 
case.  But  she  had  a  question  to  ask.  Did  Ingram 
intend  to  marry  her — now  ? 

At  this  Chevenix  stepped  back,  as  if  to  avoid  a 
blow.  ■  Ah  ! '  he  said.  *  Ah  !  That's  it.  Ask 
me  another.' 

*  Do  you  mean  to  say  of  your  friend,  and  mine,' 
she  pursued  him,  '  that  he  would  dare — after  all 
that  you  tell  me — to — ' 

1  No,'  said  Chevenix,  in  a  desperate  stew  ;  *  no, 
I   don't   mean  that.     I  think  he  would  have  her 


ii  CHEVENIX'S  CONCLUSION  99 

this  moment — if  he  could  get  her.  But — the  fact 
is —  Well,  you  know — '  and  he  glanced  anxiously 
at  the  lady,  '  I've  nothing  to  go  upon,  absolutely 
nothing  as  yet  ;  but  the  fact  is,  I'm  not  sure 
whether  she  would  take  him,  you  know — now.' 

4  Is  that  possible  ? '  was  all  the  lady  could  find 
to  say,  with  a  throw-up  of  the  hands.  *  Is  that 
possible  ? ' 

4  Quite — with  Sanchia,' saidChevenix.  'Through 
with  him,  you  know — got  to  the  bottom  of  him — 
sick  of  him.  I  believe  he  bores  her,  you  know.' 
Mrs.  Devereux  looked  at  him,  more  in  sorrow  than 
in  anger,  and  then  walked  slowly  away.  Most 
eloquent  comment. 


VI 


Whatever  may  have  been  the  net  result  upon 
Mrs.  Devereux's  mind  of  the  explanatory  revela- 
tions made  her  upon  the  river  bank,  two  things  be- 
came clear  as  day  succeeded  day.  One  was  that  Miss 
Percival  avoided  her,  the  other  that  she  sought 
out  Miss  Percival.  Being  entirely  unable  to 
succeed,  she  did  not  renounce  her  now  benevolent 
attitude  towards  the  young  lady,  but  she  decided 
to  leave  Wanless. 

All  that  she  could  do,  she  did.  No  wheedling 
of  Mrs.  Wilmot's  could  draw  any  further  comment 
from  her,  and  she  said  nothing  to  Ingram  either 
for  or  against  what  she  supposed  now  to  be  the 
desire,  the  honourable  desire  of  his  heart.  Oddly 
enough,  though  it  was  against  all  her  upbringing, 
Chevenix  had  so  far  succeeded  in  impressing  her 
that  she  rather  respected  Sanchia  the  more  for 
being  cool  now  that  rehabilitation  was  in  full 
sight,  and  practically  within  touch  of  her  hand. 
Chevenix,  in  fact,  had  made  her  see  that  Sanchia 
was  a  personality,  not  merely  a  pretty  woman. 
You  can't  label  a  girl  '  unfortunate '  if,  with  the 
chance  of  being  most  fortunate,  she  puts  her  hand 
to  her  chin,  and  reflects,  and  says,  Hum,  shall  I  ?  or 
shall  I  not  ?     Short  of  deliberately  knocking  at 

IOO 


bk.Ii         MRS.  DEVEREUX  TO  GO  101 

the  girl's  door,  she  would  have  done  anything  to 
exchange  views.  That  she  could  not  do.  She 
found  herself  waiting  about  in  corridors  and  halls 
for  Sanchia's  possible  passage.  Once  she  had 
marked  her  down  in  the  garden,  flower-basket  on 
arm,  scissors  in  hand.  She  had  been  fluttered, 
positively  felt  her  heart-beats,  as  she  sailed  down 
in  pursuit ;  but  then  Sanchia,  under  the  brim  of 
her  garden  hat,  must  have  divined  her,  for,  with 
a  few  clear  words  of  direction  over  her  shoulder  to 
the  young  gardener  who  was  helping  her,  she  had 
steered  smoothly  away,  and,  without  running, 
could  not  have  been  caught.  The  thing  was 
marked,  not  uncivilly,  but  quite  clearly.  What 
could  one  do  ? 

Two  more  days  of  fine  weather  and  perplexity, 
and  she  announced  her  departure  as  imminent. 
We  were  at  Thursday.  She  must  positively  leave 
on  Monday.  ■  No  more  letters  to  write  about  my 
shortcomings,*  was  Ingram's  comment  upon  this 
intelligence  to  Mrs.  Wilmot  apart.  ■  It's  a 
mistake  to  have  people  to  stay  with  you  who've 
known  you  all  their  lives.  They  are  for  ever  at 
their  contrasts  :  why  isn't  one  still  a  chubby-faced 
boy,  for  instance  ?  They  see  you  in  an  Eton 
jacket  once,  and  you're  printed  in  it  for  ever. 
So  you  glare  by  contrast,  you  hurt,  you  wound. 
In  other  words,  you  have  character,  you  see, 
which  is  dashed  inconvenient  to  a  woman  who 
remembers  you  with  none.  You  upset  her  calcu- 
lations— and  sometimes  she  upsets  yours.  No 
offence  to  Mrs.  Devereux  ;  but  I  rather  wish  she 
hadn't  come.' 


102  REST  HARROW  book 

Mrs.  Wilmot,  who  had  no  general  conversation, 
thought  that  they  ought  to  be  '  nice '  to  Mrs. 
Devereux  ;  to  which  Ingram  replied,  snarling,  that 
he  was  always  ■  nice '  to  her,  but  that  if  a  woman 
will  spend  her  time  writing  letters  or  disapproving 
of  her  host,  she  can't  expect  to  be  happy  in  such  a 
world  as  ours.  But  the  worst  of  Mrs.  Devereux, 
he  went  on  to  say,  was  that  she  couldn't  be  happy 
unless  she  did  disapprove  of  somebody.  Mrs. 
Wilmot,  aware  of  whom  the  lady  did  disapprove, 
dug  holes  in  the  turf,  and  wondered  what  she 
herself  ought  to  do.  Supposing  Mrs.  Devereux 
went  on  Monday,  ought  not  she — ?  Now,  she 
didn't  at  all  want  to  go  just  now. 

At  luncheon  Ingram  proposed  a  visit — to 
certain  Sowerbys  of  Sowerby,  and  pointedly  asked 
Mrs.  Devereux  to  come.  *  You  like  her,  you 
know.  It's  beyond  dispute.  So  I  do  hope  you'll 
come.     I'll  drive  you  over  in  the  phaeton.' 

Mrs.  Devereux  agreed  to  go.  Chevenix  said 
that  he  should  fish.  He  hated  calling — except  on 
Mrs.  Devereux,  of  course.  He  braved  the  discern- 
ing eyes  of  the  lady,  who  had  already  caught  him 
at  his  fishing. 

The  phaeton  safely  away,  he  found  Sanchia,  as 
he  had  hoped,  in  the  garden.  Her  gauntlets  were 
on,  an  apron  covered  her  ;  she  was  flushed  with 
the  exercise  of  the  hoe.  Struan  Glyde,  silent  and 
intent,  worked  abreast  of  hei.  He  had  just 
muttered  something  or  another  which  had  given 
her  pause.  She  had  her  chin  on  her  hands,  her 
hands  on  her  hoe,  while  she  considered  her  reply. 


ii  CHEVENIX  TRIES  AGAIN         103 

Then  Chevenix  heard  her  slow,  'Yes,  I  suppose 
so.  I  don't  like  it  at  all,  but  I'm  afraid  you're 
right.  We  are  poor  creatures,  made  to  be  under- 
neath.' 

The  cheerful  youth  rubbed  his  head.  *  Candid 
— what  ?     Where  have  we  got  to  now  ? ' 

Glyde  had  stopped  in  the  act  to  hoe  :  he  was 
stopping  still,  his  blade  in  the  ground,  but  he 
turned  his  face  sideways  to  answer  her.  '  Not  so,' 
he  said,  '  unless  you  will  have  it  so.  She  is  queen 
of  the  world  who  is  queen  of  herself.'  Then 
Sanchia  saw  Chevenix,  and  waited  for  him. 

1  Philosophy — what  ? '  the  cheerful  youth  hailed 
them.  *  Plain  living,  hard  thinking,  what  ?  Upon 
my  soul,  you  are  a  pair  1  Now,  Miss  Sancie,  I 
can  expect  the  truth  from  you.  What's  Glyde 
preaching  ?     Heresy  ?    Schism  ?    Sudden  death  ? ' 

1  He  was  talking  about  women,'  Sanchia  told 
him. 

4 Ah,'  the  youth  mused  aloud.  'He  was,  was 
he  ?  Glyde  on  Woman.  He  ought  to  wait  for 
his  beard  to  grow  ;  then  you  might  listen  to  him.' 

Glyde,  who  was  dumb  in  company,  was  hacking 
into  the  clods,  while  Chevenix,  to  whom  he  was 
negligible,  pursued  his  own  affair. 

'  I  say,  Sancie,  I'm  going  to  ask  a  favour  of 
you — not  the  first,  by  any  means  ;  but  I  always 
was  a  sturdy  beggar.  The  Lord  loveth  a  sturdy 
beggar,  eh  ?  Well,  look  here,  I'm  at  a  loose  end 
again.  Nevile's  taken  'em  out  driving — to  a  tea- 
party — to  the  Sowerbys.  I  jibbed,  though  I  was 
asked.  I  lied,  because  they  drove  me  into  a 
corner.     I  couldn't  face  old  Sowerby's  chin — and 


io4  REST  HARROW  book 

all  those  gels  with  their  embroidered  curates — 
what?  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  mean  their 
church-work,  and  the  curates  they  do  it  for.  So 
I  said  I  was  going  fishing — which  was  a  lie — and 
Mrs.  Devereux  as  good  as  said  it  was  a  lie.  Now, 
suppose  you  invite  me  to  tea  ;  how  would  that 
be?' 

'Then  you  do  go  fishing/  said  Sanchia,  and 
smiled.     'Very  well.     I  do  invite  you.' 

1  Bravo  !  You're  a  true  friend.  O  woman,  in 
our  hours  of  ease  .  .  .  !  Trust  me  for  an  apposite 
quotation  .  .  .  and  new,  what  ?  I  believe  I'm  pretty 
good  at  quotations.  My  people  used  to  play  a 
game.  You  write  down  a  name  on  a  bit  of  paper ; 
then  you  fold  it  down  ;  then  a  quotation  ;  then 
another  name.  That's  my  vein  of  gold.  Now 
you  have  it — the  secret's  out.  I'm  coming,  you 
know.  I  accept.  Many  thanks.  What's  your 
hour  ? ' 

4  Half-past  four,'  she  told  him.  He  bowed, 
and  left  her  with  Glyde.  He  turned  to  look  at 
them  as  he  left  the  walled  garden,  and  saw  them 
near  together, — Glyde  vehement  in  his  still  way  of 
undertones,  she  listening  as  she  worked. 

At  half-past  four  she  received  him  in  her  room. 
Though  her  blouse  was  of  lace  and  her  skirt  of 
green  cloth,  she  looked  like  a  virgin  of  the 
Athenian  procession.  Her  clothes  flowed  about 
her,  clung  to  her  like  weed  as  she  swam.  As 
he  met  her  friendly,  silent  welcome,  he  expressed 
her  to  himself — '  By  the  gods  above,  you  are — 
without  exception — the  healthiest — finest — bravest 


ir  REMINISCENCES  105 

— young  woman — that  ever  made  the  sun  shine 
in  grey  weather.'     Aloud,  he  made  things  easy. 

*  Here's  your  tea-party,  Sancie,  dressed  in  its 
best,  eager  for  the  fray.  When  I  think  of  old 
Sowerby  taking  whisky-pegs  while  his  family  has 
tea  and  curates,  I  bless  my  happy  stars  that  I've 
got  a  friend  at  court — to  save  me,  don't  you 
know,  from  the  wicked  man.  When  the  wicked 
man — what  ?  You  know  the  quotation,  I  expect. 
Not  one  of  my  best — but  give  me  time.' 

While  she  made  tea  he  pried  about  her  room, 
looking  at  photographs.  He  paused  here  and 
there  as  one  struck  him,  and  commented  aloud. 
c  Old  Nevile,  with  his  sour  mouth.  Looks  as  if 
the  tongs  had  nipped  him  in  the  act.  Why  will 
he  roll  his  moustache  like  that  ?  It's  not  pretty — 
shows  him  like  a  boar,  with  his  tusks  out,  don't 
you  think  ?  But  he's  a  good-looking  beggar, 
and  knows  it.  Ah  !  and  there  you  all  are — or, 
rather,  were — all  five  of  you  !  Philippa,  Hawise, 
Melusine,  Vicky,  you.  What  a  bevy  !  I  say — ' 
He  turned  to  her.  ■  I  met  old  Vicky,  for  a  minute, 
the  other  day.  Met  her  in  Bond  Street.  Sinclair'd 
got  the  pip,  or  something,  down  at  Aldershot. 
Expensive  complaint,  seemingly.  So  she'd  come 
up  to  see  a  palmist,  or  some  kind  of  an  expert 
about  him.  She  spoke  of  you,  of  her  own  accord. 
I  said  I  was  coming  down  here.' 

Sanchia's  hand  at  the  kettle  was  steady,  but  her 
eyes  flickered  before  they  took  the  veil.  *  Tell  me 
about  Vicky.     What  did  she  say — of  me  ? ' 

Chevenix  came  to  the  tea-table  and  stood  by 
her.     *  I  think  Vicky's  all  right.     I  do  indeed.     It 


106  REST  HARROW  book 

seems  to  me  she'd  give  her  ears  to  see  you — simple 
ears.  Sinclair,  you'll  find,  is  the  trouble.  He's 
the  usual  airy  kind  of  ass.  Makes  laws  for  his 
womankind,  and  has  'em  kept.  Vicky  likes  it, 
too.' 

1 1  suppose  he  is  like  that,'  Sanchia  said,  as  if  it 
was  a  curious  case.  *  I  have  never  spoken  to  him. 
He  was  about,  of  course — but  Vicky  took  him  up 
after — my  time.'  For  a  moment  emotion,  like  a 
wet  cloud,  drifted  across  her  eyes.  '  I  should  like 
to  see  Vicky  again.     It's  eight  years.' 

Chevenix  was  anxious.  '  I  do  think  it  could 
be  managed,  you  know — with  tact.  I'd  do  any 
mortal  thing,  Sancie — you  know  I  would,  but — ' 
He  despaired.  *  Tact !  Tact !  That's  what  you 
want.' 

Her  soft  mood  chased  away.  She  looked  at 
him  full.  '  I  can't  use  what  you  call  tact  with 
Vicky.  That  means  that  I  am  to  grovel.'  She 
drove  him  back  to  his  photographs.  He  peered 
into  the  little  print  on  the  wall. 

'  What  have  we  here  ?  A  domestic  scene,  my 
hat !  You  appear  to  be  bathing — well  over  the 
knee,  anyhow.  High-girt  Diana,  when  no  man  is 
by.  Awfully  jolly  you  look.  But  he  is  by. 
Who  on  earth's  this  chap  ?  ■  He  peered.  Sanchia 
from  her  tea-table  watched  him,  in  happy  muse. 
He  shouted  his  discovery.  *  I  remember  the  chap  ! 
Now,  what  on  earth  was  he  called  ?  Your  casual 
friend,  who  lived  in  a  cart  and  only  had  three  pair 
of  bags.  Nohouse — Senhouse  !  That  was  the 
man.'  He  looked  with  interest  at  the  pair,  then 
at  Sanchia.     ?  Mixed  bathing — what  ? ' 


ii  SENHOUSE  CROPS  UP  107 

She  laughed.  ■  Yes — we  both  got  wet  to  the 
skin.  Percy  Charnock  took  it  ages  ago — oh, 
,ages  !  Before  I  was  out,  or  knew  Nevile,  or  any- 
body except  you.  It  was  ten  years  ago.  I  must 
have  been  eighteen.  It  was  when  I  was  at  Gorston 
with  Grace  Mauleverer — trying  to  save  water- 
lilies  from  drowning  in  green  scum.  He — Mr. 
Senhouse — came  along  in  his  cart,  and  saw  me, 
and  lent  me  his  bed  for  a  raft — and  worked  it 
himself.  That  was  the  first  time  I  ever  saw 
him — '  she  ended  softly  in  a  sigh:  '  before  any- 
thing happened/ 

Chevenix  listened,  nodding  at  the  photograph. 
*  Wish  to  heaven,  my  dear,  nothing  had  ever 
happened.  The  less  that  happens  to  girls  the 
better  for  them,  I  believe.  Not  but  what  this 
chap  would  have  been  all  right.  If  he  had 
happened,  now  !  He  was  as  mad  as  a  hatter,  but 
a  real  good  sort.  Did  I  tell  you  ?  '  He  grew 
suddenly  reminiscent.  *  I  saw  him  a  little  more 
than  a  year  ago — with  a  pretty  woman.  Had  a 
talk  with  him — asked  him  to  come  up  and  have 
a  look  at  you.  It  was  when  Nevile  went  off  on 
this  trip.  No,  no,  I  liked  old  Senhouse.  He  was 
a  nice-minded  chap.  Not  the  kind  to  eat  you  up 
— and  take  everything  you've  got  as  if  he  had  a 
right  to  it.  No.  That's  Nevile's  line,  that  is. 
You  wouldn't  see  Nevile  lending  you  his  bed,  or 
risking  his  life  after  water-lilies.  - 

Sanchia's  eyes  were  narrow  and  critical.  She 
peered  as  if  she  were  trying  to  find  good  some- 
where in  Nevile  Ingram.  '  He'd  risk  anything  to 
get  what  he  thought   were  his  rights.     But  not 


io8  REST  HARROW  book 

upon  a  bed  for  a  raft.  He'd  write  to  London 
for  the  latest  thing  in  coracles.  He's  very  con- 
ventional/ 

'  You  have  to  be,'  said  Chevenix  with  sudden 
energy.     He  wheeled  round  upon  her  as  he  spoke. 

*  We  all  have  to  be.  We  go  by  clockwork.  You 
get  the  striking  all  wrong  if  you  play  tricks/  He 
resumed  the  photograph.  *  By  Jove,  but  that 
suits  you.  Child  of  Nature,  what  ?  I  suppose 
you're  happiest  when  you're  larking  ? ' 

1  Mud-larking  ?  '  she  asked  him,  laughing  and 
blushing. 

1  Well,  we'll  say  rampaging  ;  going  as  you 
please.' 

c  Yes.'      She  owned    to   it  without    hesitation. 

*  I  can't  be  happy,  I  think,  unless  I  can  do  just 
what  I  like  everywhere.  It  was  one  of  the  first 
things  Jack  Senhouse  ever  taught  me.  He  was 
an  anarchist,  you  know — and  I  suppose  I'm  one, 
too.' 

*  Your  gypsy  friend  ? '  He  jerked  his  head 
backwards  to  the  photograph.  c  By  Jove,  my 
dear,'  he  added,  '  you  must  have  knocked  him 
sideways — even  him — when  you  carried  out  his 
little  ideas — as  you  did.' 

She  opened  her  eyes  to  a  stare.  She  stared, 
rather  ruefully.  *  Yes,'  she  said,  '  I  believe  I  did. 
I  know  I  did.  He  was  dreadfully  unhappy.  He 
and  I  were  never  quite  the  same  after  that.  But 
I  couldn't  help  myself.  It  was  before  me — it  had 
to  be  done.' 

*  No,  no,  no  ! '  cried  he  vehemently,  but  checked 
himself.      '  Pardon,  Sancie.      We  won't  go  over  all 


ii  SANCHIA'S  PLEASURE  ioc> 

that,  but  surely  you  see,  now,  that  it  won't  do. 
Now  that  escapade  in  the  pond,  you  know.  That 
was  all  right — with  only  old  Senhouse  in  the  way. 
You  must  admit  that  you  were  rather  decolletiey  to 
say  the  least  of  it.  Now,  would  you  say  that  you 
can  do  those  sort  of  things — go  as  you  please,  you 
know,  anywhere  ? ' 

1  Why  not  ? '     Her  eyes  were  straightly  at  him. 

*  What !     Whether  you're  seen  or  not  ?  1 

She  frowned.  *  I  don't  want  to  know  whether 
I'm  seen  or  not.' 

■  And  mostly  you  don't  care  ? ' 
4  And  sometimes  I  don't  care.' 

*  Ah,'  said  Chevenix,  *  there  you  are.  Your 
u  sometimes  "  gives  you  away.' 

She  changed  the  subject.  *  Do  have  some  tea. 
It  will  be  quite  cold.' 

He  had  been  staring  again  at  the  photograph 
— Sanchia's  gleaming  limbs,  the  gypsy's  intent  face 
shadowed  over  the  water.  He  now  relinquished 
it  with  an  effort.  *  Thanks,'  he  said.  *  I  like  it 
cold.'  He  sat  beside  her,  and  they  talked  casually, 
like  old,  fast  friends,  of  mutual  acquaintance.  But 
for  him  the  air  was  charged  ;  she  was  on  his, 
conscience.  Reminiscences  paled  and  talk  died 
down  ;  he  found  himself  staring  at  the  wall. 

He  resumed  the  great  affair.  *  Nevile's  rather 
jumpy,  don't  you  think  ? ' 

Her  serenity  was  proof.  *  Is  he  ?  Why  should 
he  be  ? ' 

*  Ah,  my  dear  ! '  cried  the  poor  young  man. 
*  Let's  say  it's  the  old  Devereux.  Salmo  deverox^ 
eh  ?     Sounds  fierce.' 


no  REST  HARROW  book 

Not  a  flicker.  '  Mrs.  Devereux  ?  What  has 
she  been  doing  to  him  ?  ■ 

"  Nothing/  he  said  ;  '  and  that's  just  it.  She 
won't  have  anything  to  say  to  him.' 

Then  she  went  a  little  too  far.  A  man  charged 
with  friendly  impulse,  charged  also  with  knowledge, 
must  be  handled  tenderly.  You  must  not  be 
foolhardy.  But  here  was  bravado,  nothing  less. 
For  she  arched  her  brows,  and  showed  her  eyes 
innocently  wide.  '  Oh  ! '  she  said,  '  why  ?  Why 
won't  Mrs.  Devereux  speak  to  Nevile  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  come,  you  know.'  He  looked  at  her 
keenly.  He  didn't  wink,  but  he  blinked.  Then 
he  crossed  the  room.  '  Look  here,  Sancie.  Will 
you  let  me  talk  to  you — really — as  an  old  friend  ?  ' 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  nodded  and  smiled. 
*  Of  course  you  may  say  what  you  like.' 

He  sat  by  her,  collecting  himself.  *  Well,  then, 
what  I  shall  say  is  just  this.  The  whole  thing  is 
in  your  hands  —  now.  You  can  put  it  square. 
There's  absolutely  nothing  in  your  way — now — 
well,  now  that  Claire's  gone,  you  know.'  He 
watched  her  anxiously  for  a  sign,  but  got  none. 
So  still  she  sat,  glooming,  watching  herself — as  on 
a  scene. 

*  Mind,'  he  said  in  a  new  tone,  *  you  know 
all  about  me.  I  jibbed  at  first  when  you  broke 
away.  I'll  own  to  that.  I  couldn't  do  otherwise. 
Why,  old  Senhouse  himself  went  half  off  his  head 
about  it.  Anything  in  the  world  to  get  you  out 
of  it,  I'd  have  done.  Any  mortal  thing,  my  dear. 
But  there  !  There  was  no  holding  you — off  you 
went !     But  when  once  the  thing  was  started — the 


ii  SANCHIA'S  LAW  in 

extraordinary  thing  was  that  I  was  on  your  side 
directly.  And  so  I  always  have  been.  Ask  Vicky 
— ask  your  mother.  I've  done,  in  my  quiet  way, 
what  you  would  never  have  asked  of  me.  You 
must  forgive  me — I've  defended  you  everywhere. 
I  won't  mention  names,  but  I've  explained  your 
case,  only  lately,  in  a  rocky  quarter — and  I  know 
I've  made  an  impression.  I'm  not  much  good  at 
talking,  as  a  rule,  but  I  do  believe  that  I  put  the 
thing  rather  well.  You  make  your  own  laws — 
eh  ?  Like  Napoleon  Buonaparte  —  eh  ?  And 
somehow — the  way  you  do  it — it's  all  right,  eh, 
Sancie  ? ' 

He  got  nothing  from  her.  She  sat  on  rigid, 
with  unwinking  eyes,  staring  at  herself,  as  she  saw 
herself  on  the  scene.     Chevenix  leaned  to  her. 

1  And  Nevile  knows  it.  He  believes  it.  He 
would  say  it  anywhere.  He's  difficult,  is  Nevile  ; 
a  wayward  beggar.  He's  been  his  own  master 
since  he  was  sixteen  ;  asked,  and  had.  It's  hard 
to  make  him  understand  that  he  can't  go  on.  But 
he  can't,  the  old  sweep,  when  you  put  in  your  say. 
You  know  his  way — he  puts  his  desires  in  the 
shape  of  truisms.  He  states  them — that's  all  he 
has  to  do — they  become  immutable  laws.  Very 
imposing,  his  desires,  put  like  that.  They've 
imposed  upon  me  ;  they've  imposed  upon  you  in 
their  day.  Well,  with  a  man  like  that,  you  know, 
you  can't  take  him  up  too  short.  Go  slow,  go 
slow.  What  was  it  I  heard  Glyde  saying  to  you 
just  now?  Who's  queen  of  herself  is  queen  of 
the  world — what  ?  Now,  that's  quite  true.  One 
for  Glyde.     Apply   that  to  old    Nevile.     Queen 


ii2  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


of  herself !  Why,  what  else  are  you  ?  And 
what's  Nevile  but  the  blundering  world  in  a  man's 
skin  ?  Well,  queen  it,  queen  it — and  there's  your 
kingdom  under  your  feet.  Marry  the  old  chap, 
Sancie.  You  put  everything  right  ;  you  take 
your  proper  place.  The  county  !  But  what  are 
counties  to  you  ?  You  smile — and  you  may  well 
smile.  Let  the  county  go  hang ;  but  there's 
Vicky.  She's  more  than  county  to  you.  There's 
Melusine,  there's  Philippa,  there's  Hawise  ;  there's 
your  good  old  dad,  there's  your  lady  mother. 
You  get  'em  all.  And  Nevile's  biting  his  nails 
for  it.     And  a  free  man.     Come  now.' 

She  had  listened,  that's  certain  ;  she  hadn't 
been  displeased.  He  had  seen  her  eyes  grow 
dreamy,  he  had  marked  her  rising-  breast.  Rising 
and  falling,  rising  and  falling,  like  lilies  swayed 
by  flowing  water.  That  betokened  no  storm,  nor 
flood  ;  that  meant  the  stirring  of  the  still  deeps, 
not  by  violent  access,  but  by  slow-moving,  slow- 
gathered,  inborn  forces.  Had  he  had  eloquence, 
he  thought,  as  he  watched  her,  he  had  won.  But 
he  was  anxious.     She  was  such  a  deep  one. 

When  she  spoke  there  sounded  to  be  a  tinge 
of  weariness  in  her  voice ;  she  dragged  her 
sentences,  as  if  she  foresaw  her  own  acts,  and  was 
tired  in  advance.  She  seemed  almost  to  be  pity- 
ing her  fate.  At  first  she  looked  down  at  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  at  her  fingers  idly  interweaving  ; 
but  midway  of  her  drawn-out  soliloquy — for  she 
seemed  to  be  talking  to  herself — she  turned  him 
her  eyes,  and  he  plumbed  their  depths  in  vain. 

*  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  be  interested  in  me. 


ii  SHE  SPEAKS  113 

You  are  much  more  interested  than  I  am — and 
it's  a  compliment,  a  great  compliment.  I  think 
you  are  very  loyal — if  I  can  call  it  loyalty — if 
you'll  let  me  call  it  that.  I  like  my  work  here  ; 
I'm  perfectly  happy  doing  it.  It  was  hard  at 
first.  I  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  housekeeping 
and  managing  things  when  I  came  here.  I  had 
to  work — to  learn  book-keeping  and  accounts — 
cooking  —  building — carpentering — stock-raising 
— oh,  everything.  I  had  to  feel  that  I  knew  very 
nearly  as  much  about  everything  as  the  people 
who  were  to  do  what  I  told  them.  And  of 
course  that  was  quite  true  ;  but  it  wasn't  at  all 
easy.  It  has  taken  me  eight  years  to  get  as  far 
as  I  am  now.  And  I  could  go  on  for  years 
more.  There's  nobody  on  the  place  whom  I 
can't  manage  :  they  all  like  me.  I'm  quite 
comfortable — if  I  can  be  let  alone.' 

.  .  .  Speaking  so,  she  believed  it.  But,  think- 
ing it  over  she  was  driven  to  explain  herself. 

1  People  seem  to  think  that  girls — that  women 
— care  for  nothing  but  one  thing — being  married, 
I  mean.  I'm  sure  that's  a  mistake.  One  gets 
interested,  one  may  get  absorbed — and  then 
there's  a  difficulty.  For  it's  very  true,  I  think, 
that  unless  we  care  for  the  one  thing,  and  that  thing 
only,  we  don't  care  for  it  at  all.  At  least,  that  is 
how  I  feel  about  it.  I  have  got  lots  of  interests 
in  life — all  these  things  here — management  of 
things.  I  don't  want  Nevile — or  to  be  married. 
I  don't  want  anything  of  the  sort ;  I  can't  be 
bothered.  I  cared  once — frightfully  ;  but  now 
I    don't    care.     All   that  was  long  ago ;    at   the 


ii4  REST  HARROW  book 

beginning — eight  years  ago.  Now  it's  done  with, 
I  only  want  to  be  let  alone — to  do  my  work 
here.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  much  to  ask  ; 
but—'  .  .  . 

It  was  then  that  she  looked  at  him,  and  was 
beyond  the  power  of  his  sounding.  She  grew 
vehement,  full  of  still,  passionless  rage.  She  was 
like  a  goddess  pronouncing  a  decree  ;  she  was 
final. 

*  I  don't  want  to  marry  Nevile.  It  bores  me. 
And  he  doesn't  want  me,  really.  He  thinks  he 
does,  because  he  thinks  that  he  can't  have  me  any 
other  way.  But  he  would  be  miserable,  and  so 
should  I.  It  seems  to  me  impossible.  You  can't 
put  life  into  dead  things.  When  he  came  back 
here  the  other  day  he  had  been  away  a  year  :  a 
year  and  ten  days.     He  had  written  to  me  twice — ' 

Chevenix  interrupted.  *  Excuse  me,'  he  said. 
'  How  many  times  had  you  written  to  him  ? ' 
He  had  guessed  at  pique  ;  but  he  was  wrong. 

She  replied  slowly.  *  I  forwarded  his  letters. 
I  hadn't  written  at  all.'  Her  simplicity !  Chevenix 
allowed  her  to  go  on. 

*  The  thing — all  that  it  began  with — was  over. 
I  felt  that.  I  showed  him  that  the  first  evening 
he  was  here.  He  has  never  spoken  to  me  again — 
of  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  don't  think  he  ever 
will.  He  doesn't  understand  being  refused  any- 
thing. I  suppose  he  never  has  been  before  in  his 
life.' 

*  Weren't  you,  perhaps,  a  little  bit  short  ? '  he 
hazarded  ;  and  she  considered  the  possibility. 

1  No,  I  don't  think  so.     I  wasn't  more  abrupt 


„  SHE  FANS  FIRE  115 

than  he  was — after  a  year.'  She  paused.  *  He 
threw  out  her  death — Mrs.  Ingram's  death — ' 
she  forced  herself  to  the  name — *  quite  casually, 
as  if  he  had  been  saying,  "  By  the  by,  the  Rector's 
coming  to  dine."  If  he  had  wanted  me,  do  you 
think  he  would  have  put  it  like  that  ? ' 

1  Nevile,'  said  Chevenix,  ■  would  put  anything 
— like  anything.  He's  that  sort,  you  know. 
He'd  take  for  granted  that  you  understood  lots 
of  things  which  he  couldn't  express.  But  I  will 
say  this  for  Nevile.  He's  not  petty.  He's  fairly 
large-minded.  For  instance,  I'll  bet  you  what 
you  like  he  didn't  mind  your  not  writing  to  him — 
or  reproach  you  with  it.' 

She  opened  her  eyes.  ■  Of  course  he  didn't. 
He  was  perfectly  happy.  He  told  me  he  had 
been  idiotically  happy.  He  knew  I  was  here, 
because  I  forwarded  his  letters — and  that  was  all 
he  cared  about.  I  was  here  for — when  he  chose. 
I  assure  you  he  didn't  want  me  at  all  until  I 
showed  him  that  he  couldn't  have  me.' 

*  But  he  did,  you  know,'  said  Chevenix  ;  *  he 
does.  He  was  sure  of  you  all  through,  from  the 
beginning,  as  you  say.  That's  why  he  didn't 
write  or  expect  letters  from  you.  He  flattered 
himself  that  he  was  secure.  Poor  old  Nevile  ! ' 
He  felt  sorry  now  for  Ingram.  She  was  really 
adamantine. 

She  arose,  with  matches  in  her  hand,  knelt 
before  the  fire  and  kindled  it.  She  blew  into  it 
with  her  mouth,  and  watched  the  climbing  flames. 
*  I  don't  think  you  need  pity  Nevile,  really,'  she 
said.     '  He   will    always    be    happy.     But    I    am 


u6  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


going  to  be  made  unhappy.'  She  proclaimed  her 
fate  as  a  fact  in  which  she  had  no  concern  at  all. 
Chevenix  rose  and  paced  the  room. 

'  Well,  you  know — I  must  be  allowed  to  say — 
your  happiness  is  so  entirely  in  your  own  hands. 
It's  difficult — I've  no  right  to  suggest — to  interfere 
in  any  way.     I'm  nothing  at  all,  of  course — ' 

'  You  are  my  friend,  I  hope,'  she  said,  watch- 
ing the  young  fire — still  on  her  knees  before  it, 
worshipping  it,  as  it  seemed.  Chevenix  expanded 
his  chest. 

'  You  make  me  very  proud.  I  thank  you  for 
that.  Yes,  I  am  your  friend.  That's  why  I  risk 
your  friendship  by  asking  you  something.  You 
won't  answer  me  unless  you  choose,  of  course. 
But — come  now,  Sancie,  is  there,  might  there  be 
— somebody  else  ? ' 

She  looked  round  at  him  from  where  she  knelt. 
Her  hands  were  opened  to  the  fire  ;  her  face  was 
warmed  by  its  glow  ;  it  was  the  pure  face  of  a 
seraph.     *  No.     There's  nobody  at  all — now.' 

He  was  again  standing  before  the  little  photo- 
graph of  the  nymph  thigh-deep  in  water.  That 
seemed  to  attract  him  ;  but  he  heard  her  '  now,' 
and  started.  '  I  take  your  word  for  it,  absolutely. 
But,  seeing  what  you  felt  for  Nevile  in  the 
beginning,  I  should  have  thought — in  any  ordinary 
case — there  must  have  been  a  tender  spot — unless, 
of  course,  you  had  changed  your  mind — for 
reasons — ' 

She  got  up  from  her  knees,  and  stood,  leaning 
by  the  mantelpiece.  Her  low  voice  stirred  him 
strangely. 


ii  CHEVENIX  BURNT  117 

*  There  are  reasons.  The  spot,  as  you  call  it, 
is  so  tender  that  it's  raw.' 

1  Good  Lord/  said  Chevenix.  *  What  do  you 
mean  ? ' 

She  was  full  of  her  reasons,  evidently. 
Rumours  of  them,  so  to  say,  drove  over  her  eyes, 
showed  cloudily  and  angrily  there.  Her  beauti- 
ful mouth  looked  cruel — as  if  she  saw  death  and 
took  joy  in  it.  *  I  think  he  is  horrible,'  she  said. 
'  I  think  he  is  like  a  beast.  He  doesn't  love  me 
at  all  until  he  comes  here — and  then  he  expects 
me — Oh,  don't  ask  me  to  talk  about  it.'  She 
stopped  her  tongue,  but  not  her  thought.  That 
thronged  the  gates  of  her  lips.  She  hesitated, 
fighting  the  entry  ;  but  the  words  came,  shocked 
and  dreadful.  *  He  wants  me,  to  ravage  me — 
like  a  beast.* 

Chevenix  began  to  stammer.  *  Oh,  I  say,  you 
musn't — Oh,  don't  talk  like  that — ' 

The  door  opened,  and  Ingram  came  in. 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  sharply. 
■  Hulloa,'  he  said.  *  What  are  you  two  about  in 
here  ? ' 

Sanchia  looked  at  the  fire,  and  put  her  foot 
close  to  it,  to  be  warmed.  *  Tea-party,'  said 
Chevenix.  '  That's  it,  Nevile.'  He  nodded  sagely 
at  his  host,  and  saw  his  brow  clear.  Ingram  shut 
the  door  and  came  into  the  room,  to  a  chair. 
'  That's  all  right,'  he  said.  ■  I  hope  it  was  a 
livelier  one  than  mine.  That  old  Devereux  was 
on  her  high-stepper.  I'm  sick  of  being  trampled. 
I  thought,  though,  that  you  had  been  having 
words.     You  looked  like  it.' 


n8  REST  HARROW  book 

Sanchia  said,  smiling  in  her  queer  way,  *  Oh, 
dear  no.  Mr.  Chevenix  is  much  too  kind  for  that. 
He's  been  talking  very  nicely  to  me.  He's  been 
charming.' 

'  Oh,  come,  Sancie — '  cried  the  brisk  young 
man,  quite  recovered. 

Ingram,  in  a  stare,  said,  *  Yes,  Sancie,  you  may 
trust  him.     He's  a  friend  of  ours.' 

1 1  do  trust  him,'  she  said. 

Chevenix  said,  *  I  shall  go  out  on  that.  I 
declare  my  innings.  Good-bye,  you  two.  I'll 
go  and  pacify  the  Devereux.'  He  hoped  against 
hope  that  he  might  have  warmed  her. 

Ingram,  when  they  were  alone,  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair,  crossed  one  leg,  and  clasped  the 
thin  ankle  of  it.  He  had  finely-made,  narrow 
feet,  and  was  proud  of  his  ankles.  Sanchia  was 
now  again  kneeling  before  the  fire. 

1  Quite  right  to  have  a  fire,'  he  said.  '  It's 
falling  in  cold.  There'll  be  a  frost.  What  was 
Chevenix  saying  about  me  ? ' 

She  had  been  prepared.  *  Nothing  but  good. 
He's  your  friend,  as  you  said.' 

*  I  said  "  our  friend,"  my  dear.' 

She  looked  at  him.  '  Yes,  certainly.  He's  my 
friend,  too.' 

*  I  hope  he'll  prove  so.  Upon  my  soul,  I  do.' 
He  remained  silent  for  a  time.  Then  he  leaned 
forward  suddenly,  and  held  out  his  arms. 

'  Oh  Sancie,'  he  said,  his  voice  trembling. 
*  Love  me.' 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide,  searching,  earnest 


ii  THE  DEAD  THING  119 

eyes.  They  seemed  to  search,  not  him,  but  her 
own  soul.  They  explored  the  void,  seeking  for 
a  sign,  a  vestige,  a  wreck  ;  but  found  nothing. 

1 1  can't/  she  said.  Her  voice  was  frayed. 
*  The  thing  is  quite  dead/ 

Ingram  flushed  deeply,  but  sat  on,  biting  his 
lip,  frowning,  staring  at  the  young,  mounting  fire, 
which  she,  stooping  over  it,  cherished  with  her 
breath  and  quick  hands. 


VII 

Ingram,  at  supper  in  his  private  room,  had  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  and  spoke  between  his  fists 
to  Chevenix,  let  into  these  mysteries  for  the  first 
time. 

'  I  ought  not  to  complain,  you'll  say,  and  in  my 
heart  of  hearts  I  don't,  because  I'm  a  reasonable 
man,  and  know  that  you  don't  make  a  row  about 
sunstroke  or  lightning-shocks.  We  call  'em  the 
Act  of  God,  and  rule  'em  out  in  insurance  offices. 
No,  no,  I  see  what  I've  let  myself  in  for.  I've 
been  away  too  much  ;  she's  got  sick  of  it.  I  shall 
have  to  work  at  it — to  bring  her  round.  By  God, 
and  she's  worth  it.     She's  a  wonder.' 

'  Pity,'  said  Chevenix,  '  you've  only  iust  found 
it  out' 

Ingram  frowned,  and  waxing  in  rage,  stared 
at  his  friend  as  if  he  had  never  known  him.  ■  You 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Why,  she 
adored  me.  I  was  never  more  in  love  with  a 
woman  in  my  life  than  I  was  with  Sancie.' 

Chevenix  tilted  back  his  chair.  *  Oh,  you  had 
it  pretty  badly — at  the  time.  The  trouble  with 
you  is  that  you  are  such  a  chap  for  accepting  things. 
You're  like  a  hall-porter  in  a  Swiss  hotel.  You 
take  things  for  granted.     Do  nothing — hold  out 

1 20 


bk.ii  INGRAM'S  MEMORIES  121 

your  hand — and  get  your  perks.  Perks  !  Why, 
they  ain't  perks  at  all.  They're  bounty — what 
you  get  from  a  girl  like  Sancie.' 

All  this  Ingram  took  as  his  due — as  due,  that 
is,  to  a  man  of  passion  and  reasonable  desires.  He 
fell  into  a  reverie.  *  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  She  was 
devilish  fond  of  me.' 

Chevenix  gritted  his  teeth,  but  Ingram  went 
on.  *  It  was  a  false  position,  I  know,  and  I  never 
ought  to  have  looked  at  her  twice.  But  she  was 
awfully  queer  or  awfully  deep — one  never  knew 
which.  Why,  when  we  got  thick  together — always 
meeting  out,  always  reading  poetry  and  philosophy 
— Shelley,  Dante,  Keats  (I  forget  half  their  names 
now) — I  take  my  oath  I  hadn't  a  suspicion  that 
she  was  getting  to  like  me,  in  that  sort  of  way,  as 
we  call  it.  She  made  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  to  me,  I  can  tell  you.  You  know  what  I 
was  doing  after  Claire  bolted  with  that  swine  : 
killing  time  and  killing  myself — that's  what  I  was 
doing.  It  was  like  going  into  church  out  of  the 
sun  to  hear  her  at  her  poetry,  and  see  her.  Oh,  a 
lovely  girl  she  was  ! ' 

■  She's  a  lovelier  woman  than  you  and  I  are  fit 
to  look  at,'  said  Chevenix,  ■  if  you  ask  me.' 

1  Damn  you,  I  know  all  about  that.  D'you 
think  I  want  telling,  now  that  I  can't  get  her  ? 
Well,  then  I  found  out  what  was  the  matter  with 
me — and  then  we  cleared  the  air.' 

'  Who  had  stuffed  it  up  to  begin  with  ? ' 
Chevenix  murmured  ;  but  Ingram  ignored  him. 

*  I  told  her  the  whole  thing — ' 

*  After  she  had  found  it  out ! '  cried  Chevenix 


122  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


with  energy.  '  Let's  have  cards  on  the  table.  I 
told  Vicky  all  about  it  at  a  dance — and  Vicky  told 
her/ 

'  I  told  her,'  Ingram  said,  c  that  I  was  in  love 
with  her,  and  promised  to  behave — and  so  I  should 
have,  only — ' 

'  Only  you  didn't,  old  chap/ 

*  She  loved  me — there  was  no  stopping  it  then. 
The  thing  was  done.  Mind  you,  her  people  knew 
it  all,  too/ 

'  The  mother  always  was  a  fool,'  Chevenix 
agreed.     *  And  she  liked  you.' 

'  I  know  she  did.     I  took  care  of  that.' 

1  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  boy,'  the  other  objected. 
4  That's  just  what  you  didn't  do.  She  liked  you 
because  she  thought  you  didn't  care  a  curse 
whether  she  liked  you  or  not/ 

Ingram  raised  his  eyebrows  at  such  nUivete. 
'  That's  what  I  mean,  of  course.  So  it  went  on 
all  that  summer.  We  used  to  shake  when  we 
met  each  other,  and  be  speechless.  By  heavens, 
what  a  time  that  was  !  Do  you  remember  the 
tea-party  ? ' 

Chevenix  blinked.  '  I  wasn't  there  ;  but  I 
remember  what  happened  afterwards.  The  poor 
child — as  white  as  a  sheet — and  every  hand  lifted 
against  her.  By  God,  Nevile,  what  girls — mere 
chits — will  go  through  ! ' 

'  I  know,'  said  Ingram  dreamily.  '  Isn't  it 
awful  ? '  Chevenix  looked  at  him.  He  was 
quite  serious.  What  can  you  do  with  such  a 
man  as  this  ? 

c  They  left  us  alone  in  the  room,  you  know,' 


THE  ELECTRIC  HOUR  123 

Ingram  continued.  *  Vicky  went  out  last  and  left 
us  in  there — and  the  whole  place  was  charged  with 
electricity.  You  could  feel  it,  smell  it,  hear  it 
crackling  all  about.  My  heart  going  like  a  drum  ; 
my  ears  buzzing  with  it  all.  I  hadn't  been  able 
to  speak  when  they  spoke  to  me.  I  don't  know 
what  the  devil  they  must  have  thought  of  me — 
and  I  didn't  care  a  damn.  And  over  across  the 
tea-table,  on  a  low  chair — there  she  sat — my 
girl !  Her  eyes  downcast,  her  mouth  adroop.' 
He  shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  ■  And  Vicky 
went  out,  and  left  us  there  ! ' 

'You  had  it  badly,  old  chap,'  Chevenix  said. 
'  Go  slow.  Take  your  time.  Or  chuck  it,  if 
you'd  rather.' 

Ingram  appeared  not  to  hear  him  ;  he  was 
staring  at  the  tablecloth,  at  his  two  hands  locked 
in  front  of  him,  and  at  his  knuckles  white  under 
the  strain. 

'  I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  gaping  at 
the  window,  I  don't  indeed.  I  could  feel  her 
sitting  shaking  in  her  chair  ;  but  neither  of  us 
said  anything.  Somebody  came  to  take  the  tea 
out — and  then  I  turned  and  looked  at  her  ;  and 
she  turned  and  looked  at  me.  Something  drew 
me — set  me  on  the  move.  It  was  all  over  with 
me  then.  I  went  straight  across  the  room  to  her  ; 
I  stood  above  her,  I  stooped  and  took  her  hands. 
I  don't  know  what  I  said  :  she  looked  at  me  all 
the  time  in  a  strange,  clear  way.  She  got  up — 
I  was  beside  her,  and  took  her.  Not  a  word  said. 
I  had  her  lips.  Honey  of  flowers  !  Her  soul 
came  forth  from  them  :  new  wine.     Oh  God  !  I 


i24  REST  HARROW  book 

thought  so,  anyhow.  And  so  did  she.  Chevenix, 
she  meant  giving.' 

Chevenix  nodded  shortly.  He  believed  that. 
Ingram  had  covered  his  eyes. 

He  drained  a  glass  before  he  went  on  with  his 
account.  *  I  suppose  you  know  the  rest  as  well 
as  I  do.  I  never  had  the  details  out  of  her.  One 
of  them — that  Mrs.  King — Philippa,  it  was — came 
slam  into  the  room  ;  and  what  was  there  to  do  ? 
I  stuck  it  as  long  as  I  could — until  I  was  practically 
kicked  out.  The  mother  came  back  and  turned 
me  out.  I  had  to  leave  her  to  brave  them  all — 
and  I  never  saw  her  again  until  I  found  out  where 
she  was  in  London.' 

'Don't  you  trouble  to  tell  me  all  that  part,' 
said  Chevenix  frowning  at  him.  '  I  know  more 
about  that  than  you  do.  I  was  in  it.  My  head, 
how  they  treated  her  !  What  I  never  did  under- 
stand, you  know,  was  how  you  found  out  where 
she  was.' 

Ingram  smiled.  His  memories  now  amused 
him.  He  looked  straight  at  his  friend.  ■  I'll  tell 
you  that.  It  was  rather  neat.  You  remember  that 
chap  Senhouse — loafing  kind  of  artist  ?  Anarchist, 
gypsy-looking  chap,  who  wore  no  hat  ? ' 

Chevenix  opened  his  eyes.     '  By  George,  I  do  ! ' 

Ingram  nodded.  '  She  thought  no  end  of  him. 
He  took  her  affair  with  me  very  much  to  heart.' 

'  As  well  he  might,'  said  Chevenix.  '  I  fancy 
that  you  were  the  only  person  who  took  it  easy.' 

4  Sancie  used  to  tell  him  everything,'  Ingram 
went  on,  ■  and  she  told  him  all  the  trouble.  She'd 
been  turned  adrift  with  fifty  pounds  to  her  name.' 


ii  ODDS  AGAINST  SENHOUSE        125 

*  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that/  Chevenix  put  in. 
1  They  locked  her  up  with  an  aunt,  and  she  bolted.' 

*  Same  thing/  said  Ingram.  ■  Well,  this  chap 
Senhouse  comes  here  one  day  in  a  mighty  hurry — 
turns  up  at  breakfast,  and  makes  a  row.  Wants 
me  to  swear  I'll  divorce  and  marry  Sancie.  Says 
he  thinks  I'm  a  blackguard  and  all  that,  but  that, 
on  the  whole,  I'd  better  marry  her.  Refuses  to 
give  me  her  address,  all  the  same.  We  had  a 
row,  I  remember,  because  he  began  to  tell  me 
what  he  thought  about  her.  The  man  was  a 
bore,  you  know/ 

Chevenix  screwed  up  one  leg.  *  All  men  are, 
if  they're  sweet  on  your  sweetheart,  I  suppose. 
He  was  worth  fifty  of  you,  all  the  same — but  go 
on.' 

Ingram  laughed.  *  I  set  my  wits  against  his,' 
he  said,  'and  found  out  that  he'd  come  straight 
from  seeing  her — in  London.  That  was  good 
enough  for  me.  I  got  rid  of  Master  Senhouse, 
and  went  off  to  town.  He  had  no  promises  out 
of  me^  you  may  believe.' 

Chevenix  felt  very  sick,  and  looked  it.  ■  The 
less  you  say  about  your  promises,  my  good  chap, 
the  better  I'll  take  it.'  But  Ingram  by  now 
had  got  back  to  his  holier  reminiscences  : — 

*  I  hunted  for  her  high  and  low  for  three 
months — advertised,  turned  on  detectives.  I  had 
even  dared  her  friends'  eyes  and  their  cold  shoulders 
— couldn't  hear  anything.  ...  I  was  walking  in 
hell  for  three  months.  .  .   . 

'  Then,  one  day,  I  met  her — in  Chancery  Lane. 
Of  all  squalid  places  on  earth — there.   .  .  . 


126  REST  HARROW  book 

I  I'd  been  to  my  lawyer's,  in  Lincoln's  Inn.  I'd 
settled  money  on  her — in  case  anything  happened 
to  me  while  I  was  abroad.  I  was  going  to  travel, 
because  Fd  given  it  up.  And  then  I  met  her. 
Chancery  Lane  ! 

I I  was  passing  some  school  or  another — Com- 
mercial Academy — book-keeping,  shorthand,  type- 
writing— that  sort  of  place ;  a  lot  of  ogling, 
giggling  girls,  and  boys  after  'em,  came  tumbling 
down  the  steps — all  sun-bonnets  and  fluffy  hair  ; 
and  down  the  steps  she  came,  too — Sanchia  came — 
like  a  princess.  She  was  in  white,  my  dear  man — 
as  fresh  and  dainty  as  a  rose,  I  remember.  Daisies 
round  a  broad-brimmed  straw  :  some  books  under 
her  arm.  The  sun  was  on  her,  lit  the  gold  in  her 
hair.  She  looked  neither  right  nor  left,  spoke  to 
no  one,  had  no  one  with  her,  or  after  her.  She 
was  never  showy.  You  had  to  know  her  well 
to  see  how  lovely  she  was.  She  never  showed 
off  well,  and  was  always  silent  in  company.  Oh, 
but  what  a  girl  ! 

'When  she  saw  me  she  flushed  all  over,  and 
stood.  She  stood  on  the  last  step,  and  looked 
at  me.  Looked  at  me  straight,  as  if  she  waited. 
I  went  directly  to  her,  and  took  her  hand.  She 
let  me.  I  couldn't  speak  sense.  I  said,  "  You !  " 
and  she  said,  "  I  knew  I  should  see  you  like  this." 
It  sounded  all  right.  I  never  questioned  it.'  .  .  . 
He  stared,  then  broke  out.  '  Good  God,  Bill ! 
To  think  of  her  then — and  to  see  her  now !  She 
won't  look  at  me  !  I  don't  exist.'  He  plunged 
his  face  between  his  hands,  and  rocked  himself 
about.     Chevenix  watched  him   without  a  word. 


ii  QUESTIONS  FOR  INGRAM         127 

Suddenly  he  lifted  his  pinched  face,  and  complained 
bitterly. 

*I  can't  understand  it — I  don't  know  what's 
changed  her.  Why,  it's  awful  to  make  a  chap 
suffer  like  this  ! '  He  stared  about  him.  ■  Why, 
Bill,'  he  said  hushing  down  his  voice,  ■  is  she  going 
to  drop  me,  d'you  think — let  me  go  to  the  devil  ? ' 

Chevenix  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire.  *  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  whine,  Nevile  ;  I've 
got  something  to  say  to  all  this  tale  of  yours. 
I've  got  to  ask  you  a  thing  or  two.  When  you 
found  her,  now ;  and  when  you  knew  all  that 
she'd  gone  through — a  child  like  that !  You 
brought  her  up  here — hey  ? ' 

Without  shifting  his  head  to  face  his  cross- 
examination,  Ingram  answered  between  his  hands 
— *  No,  I  didn't.  She  wouldn't  budge  from  her 
school  till  she'd  finished  her  course.  I  courted 
her  for  a  month.  It  took  me  all  that  to  make 
her  listen  to  reason.' 

*  Reason  ! '  Chevenix  rated  him.  '  You  call  it 
reason  ! ' 

■  It  was  what  she  called  it — not  I,'  said  Ingram 
from  between  his  fists.  Then  he  looked  up. 
■  She  refused  the  idea  of  going  abroad.  Said  she 
wasn't  at  all  afraid  of  people  talking.  Said  she 
wanted  to  work  for  me.  Must  be  doing  some- 
thing, she  said.  I  tell  you,  it  was  her  idea  from 
the  beginning.  And  I  do  say,  myself,  that  it  was 
reasonable.'  He  searched  for  agreement  in  his 
friend's  face,  but  got  none.  *  It  suited  better,' 
he  said  presently,  with  indifference.  *  It  suited 
better — in  every  way.     I  had  to  be  here. 


128  REST  HARROW  book 

'  Why  had  you  to  be  here,  man  ? '  Chevenix 
raised  his  voice.  '  What  the  devil  did  it  matter 
to  you,  having  her,  where  you  were  ? ' 

'It  mattered  a  lot.  I  like  this  place.  It's 
mine.  I've  got  duties  up  here.  I'm  a  magistrate 
and  all  that.' 

Chevenix  was  now  very  hot.  *  Magistrate  be 
damned.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  profess 
to  love  a  woman,  and  turn  her  into  a  servant 
because  you  want  to  try  poachers?  And  you 
talk  about  the  sun  in  her  hair  !  And  then — upon 
my  soul,  Ingram,  you  sicken  me.' 

c  You  fool,'  said  Ingram.  '  I  tell  you  it  was 
her  own  idea.  She  loves  the  place.  She  loves  it 
a  lot  more  than  she  does  me.  It's  been  a  continual 
joy  to  her.  Why,  where  would  she  have  been 
while  I  was  in  India — all  that  year — if  she  hadn't 
had  all  this  in  her  hands  ?  You  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about.' 

His  voice  rang  down  his  scorn.  Chevenix 
began  to  stammer. 

'You're  hopeless,  Nevile,  utterly  hopeless. 
Every  word  you  say  gives  up  your  case.  What's 
it  to  do  with  you  whether  she  likes  it  or  not  ? 
I'm  not  talking  of  her,  but  of  you.  You  silly  ass, 
don't  you  see  where  you  are  ?  You  fall  in  love 
with  a  woman  and  make  her  your  head  housemaid. 
Then  you  say,  Oh,  but  she  likes  it.  It's  not  what 
she  likes  we're  talking  about ;  it's  what  you  can 
bring  yourself  to  do  with  her.  Wait  a  bit  now. 
There's  more  to  it.  You  play  about  here,  there, 
and  all  over  the  shop.  Off  you  go  for  three 
months  at  a  time,  sky-larking,  shooting  antelope, 


ii  CHEVENIX'S  POINTS  129 

pigeon-shooting,  polo,  and  whatever.  She  sits 
here  and  minds  the  gardeners — she  whom  you  saw 
with  the  sun  in  her  hair !  Year  in,  year  out  it 
goes  on.  Now  here  you  are  back  from  India. 
Good.  You  leave  her  for  a  year,  and  write  to  her 
twice — then  you  say,  Why,  where  would  she  have 
been  if  she  hadn't  had  something  to  do?  The 
sun  in  her  hair,  hey  ?  Love  !  My  good  chap, 
you  don't  know  how  to  spell  the  word.  You 
ought  not  to  touch  her  shoe-string.  You're  not 
fit.  By  Gad,  sir,  and  now  I  remember  something  ! 
And  it's  the  truth,  it's  the  bitter,  naked,  grinning 
truth.'  He  did  remember  something.  He  saw 
her  curled-back  lip — he  saw  her  fierce  resentful 
eyes.  He  heard  her  say  it  :  *  I  think  he  is  like  a 
beast.  He  wants  to  ravage  me — like  a  beast.' 
'  You've  been  judged,  Nevile,'  he  said.  ■  You've 
done  for  yourself.     And  now  I'll  go  to  bed.' 

Ingram's  face  was  very  cloudy.  He  looked  for 
a  moment  like  quarrelling.  'Do  you  mean  to 
leave  me  like  this?'  he  asked. 

*  Yes,'  said  Chevenix,  ■  I  do.  I  don't  want  to 
stop  and  hear  you  protest  that  you  intend  to  marry 
her.  Marry  her !  Why,  man,  if  you'd  meant 
to  marry  her,  you'd  have  posted  home  express  from 
Marseilles  the  moment  you  heard  that  you  could 
do  it.  But  no  !  You've  got  her  there — in  cap 
and  apron — she'll  keep.  You  know  she's  here — 
you  have  your  fling.  And  you  stop  three  days  in 
Paris,  and  drop  it  to  her  casually,  when  you  please, 
that  you're  a  free  man.  Yes,  by  George,  I  do 
mean  to  leave  you  like  this.  You're  best  alone, 
by  George.     Good-night  to  you.' 


130  REST  HARROW  book 

He  went  smartly  away  ;  but  he  had  worked 
himself  into  a  shaking  fit,  could  not  have  slept  to 
save  his  life.  A  cigar  at  the  open  window  was 
inevitable. 

He  leaned  far  into  the  night.  It  was  densely 
dark,  and  had  been  raining.  Soft  scud  drifted 
over  his  face  ;  clouds  in  loose  solution  drenched 
the  earth.  He  smoked  fiercely,  inhaling  great 
draughts  and  driving  them  out  into  the  fog. 
Being  no  thinker,  his  sensations  took  no  body,  but 
he  broke  out  now  and  again  with  pishes  and 
pshaws,  or  scornfully — '  Old  Nevile — hungry  devil, 
what  ?  Stalking  about  like  a  beast.  Oh,  she  was 
right,  she  was  right.  Pish  !  And  there's  an  end 
of  it/ 

He  was  aware  of  softly  moving  feet  below — a 
measured  tread.  He  listened  and  heard  them 
beyond  dispute.  *  Nevile  ! '  he  said,  *  like  a  beast, 
padding  about  his  place/  He  listened  on,  grimly 
amused.     Let  him  pad  and  rage. 

But  he  was  to  be  startled.  A  voice  hailed  him, 
not  Ingram's.     *  Beg  your  pardon,  sir.' 

*  Hulloa  ! '  he  cried.     '  Who  are  you,  my  man  ? ' 

*  Glyde,  sir.     Is  all  well  ? ' 

*  What  do  you  mean,  Glyde  ?  What  are  you 
doing  ? ' 

' 1  was  passing,  sir,  to  my  houses.  I  heard 
voices,  and  I  wondered — ' 

1  Oh  ! '  he  laughed.  '  You  thought  there  was  a 
scrap,  did  you  ?  It's  all  right,  Glyde.  I  and  the 
master  were  having  a  talk.  Nothing  for  you  to 
worry  about.  I  shared  his  lonely  meal.  Don't 
you  be  disturbed.' 


ii  GLYDE  PROWLS  131 

1  No,  no,  sir.     Thank  you,  sir.' 

Chevenix  called  to  him  when  he  was  at  some 
distance.     '  I  say,  Glyde.' 

1  Yes,  sir  ? ' 

'  You  can  go  to  bed.     It's  all  right.' 

*  Thank  you,  sir.     Good-night.' 

He  chuckled  as  he  undressed.  ■  Rum  fish, 
Glyde.  Watch  and  ward,  what  ?  Watching  his 
shield.  Bless  her,  she's  got  friends,  then.'  He 
considered  for  a  while,  flicking  the  glowing  end  of 
his  cigar.  ■  That  chap — Senhouse — Jack  Senhouse. 
I  wonder  what's  become  of  him.' 


VIII 

The  discrepancies  of  an  unfortunate  party  caused 
no  disturbance  to  the  staff  of  Wanless  Hall. 
Sanchia,  whatever  her  private  cares — and  they 
seemed  less  than  those  of  other  people  on  her 
account — suffered  nothing  to  interfere  with  her 
housekeeping.  Ingram  might  rage  for  her  in 
vain,  Chevenix  agonise,  or  quarrel  with  his  host 
and  friend,  Mrs.  Devereux  disapprove  to  the 
point  of  keeping  her  room  ;  but  Sanchia,  with 
front  serene,  moved  from  office-table  to  kitchen, 
to  the  garden,  to  the  home-farm,  interviewed  Mrs. 
Benson,  consulted  with  the  stockman,  pored — her 
head  close  to  Glyde's — over  seed-pans  and  melon 
borders,  was  keenly  interested,  judicial,  reflective, 
pleading,  coaxing  by  turns — seemed,  in  fact,  not 
to  have  a  perplexity  in  her  fair  head.  Her  health 
was  superb,  she  never  had  an  ache  nor  failed  of  an 
appetite.  To  see  her  sitting  in  the  stable-yard  on 
a  sunny  morning,  her  lap  full  of  nozzling  fox- 
hound pups,  was  to  have  a  vision  of  Artemis 
Eileithyia.  So,  it  seemed,  the  grave  mother-hound, 
erect  on  haunches,  with  wise  ears,  and  sidelong 
eyes  showing  the  white,  knew  her  certainly  to  be. 
Beside  and  over  her  stood  Frodsham  of  the  stables, 
and  his  underlings,  firmly  her  friends. 

132 


bk.ii  SHE  PLAYS  LUCINA  133 

She  looked  up,  beaming.  *  Oh,  Frodsham, 
aren't  they  sweet  ?  One  of  them  tries  to  suck  my 
finger.  What  are  you  going  to  call  them  ?  I  do 
hope  you  mean  to  keep  them  all/ 

*  I  doubt  they're  too  many  for  the  old  bitch, 
Miss  Percival.  She'll  not  feed  the  lot  of  them. 
We'll  be  wise  to  duck  the  latest  cast.' 

1  Oh,  no, — please.  I'll  feed  it — I  will,  really. 
I  couldn't  let  you  drown  it.  Now,  what  are  their 
names  to  be  ? ' 

'  There's  Melpomeen,  Miss  Percival,  and 
Melody,  and  Melchior,  and  Melchizedek.  That's 
for  the  bitches.' 

She  quizzed  him.  '  No,  Frodsham,  really  that 
won't  do.  I'm  not  quite  sure  about  Melchizedek  ; 
but  Melchior  was  a  man — he  was  a  king — a  king  of 
the  East.    And  I  believe  Melchizedek  was  an  angel.' 

Frodsham  rubbed  his  chin.  'May  be  you  are 
right,  Miss  Percival.  An  angel,  was  he  now  ? 
Wings  to  him  ?  ■  Tis  a  name  for  a  bird,  then. 
If  we  kept  the  hawks  the  old  Squire  used  to  love 
— there's  a  name  for  a  peregrine  !  Melchizedek 
— a  fair  mouthful.' 

'A  Priest  for  ever,'  mused  Jacobs,  a  wizened 
elder,  the  kennel  man,  who  yet  bowed  to  the 
coachman  in  his  own  yard.  '  We  may  put  him 
among  the  dogs,  I  believe.  We've  Proteus,  and 
Prophet ;  but  no  Priest.' 

Frodsham  looked  to  Sanchia  for  direction, 
ignoring  Jacobs.  She  flashed  him  a  name.  ■  Meli- 
sande,  Frodsham.  Call  her  Melisande,  and  save 
her  life  ;  and  she  shall  be  mine.  I'll  look  after  her. 
Please  do.'     He  owned  to  the  spell  of  her  eyes,  of 


134  REST  HARROW  book 

the  sun  upon  her  hair.  *  Melisande  she  shall  be, 
Miss  Percival,  and  your  own,'  he  said.  ■  The 
Missus  shall  rear  her  if  the  old  bitch  won't.  She's 
had  six  of  her  own,  and  knows  what  it  is.' 

Regretfully,  one  by  one,  she  put  the  striving 
blind  things  down  ;  then  rose  and  went  her  way 
into  the  gardens  above  the  house.  Slowly  through 
the  kitchen  gardens  she  passed.  Glyde,  thinning 
walled  peach-trees,  saw  her,  felt  her  go.  She  shed 
her  benediction  upon  him — 'Good  morning, 
Struan,' — and  went  on.  He  watched  her  for  a 
while,  then  turned  fiercely  to  his  affair.  Through 
dense  shrubberies,  over  drenched  lawns  her  way 
was  ;  it  led  her  to  the  lily-pond,  which  lay  hidden 
within  rhododendron  walls,  with  a  narrow  cincture 
of  grass  path  all  about  it.  Dark-brown,  still  and 
translucent  like  an  onyx  it  lay  before  her.  It  was 
her  haunt  of  election  when  she  was  troubled,  as 
now  she  was,  when  she  gave  herself  time  to 
remember  it. 

She  stood,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  close 
to  the  water's  brim,  and  looked  over  the  shining 
surface.  She  had  never  yet  squarely  faced  her 
difficulties.  Her  sceptre  was  slipping  from  her  ; 
her  realm,  usurped  at  first,  hers  by  sufferance 
first,  but  then  by  love  of  them  she  ruled,  could 
hold  her  but  a  little  while  more.  The  shadow  of 
coming  eclipse  made  her  eyes  grow  sombre. 
Doubt  of  the  unknown  made  lax  her  lips. 

If  Nevile's  wife,  with  all  her  sins  clotted  on  her, 
was  dead,  what  was  she  herself  going  to  do,  or  allow 
to  be  done  ?  She  had  yielded  to  love — her  first  love 
and  her  last ;  but  that  had  been  long  ago.     Love, 


„  SHE  PITIES  HERSELF  135 

the  fire,  the  trembling  and  the  music  in  her  heart  ; 
pride,  the  trust,  the  loyalty,  the  bliss  of  service  ; 
the  wonder,  the  swooning,  the  glory  like  a  sun 
upon  her — all  gone,  burned  out,  or  worked  out. 
Why,  how  long  had  it  lasted  her  ?  Her  lips 
stretched  to  a  bleak  smile  to  think  of  it.  Three 
months*  joy  in  herself,  three  months'  joy  of  him  ; 
then  work,  incessant  and  absorbing  ;  and  then  the 
growth  of  a  new  pride,  the  pride  of  mind  (for  she 
found  that  she  had  a  brain),  and  of  a  new  love — 
for  she  found  that  she  loved  the  creatures  more 
than  man.  Education  indeed  !  To  draw  from  a 
child  caught  unawares  the  force  and  the  brooding 
love  of  an  Earth-Goddess. 

In  the  beginning,  she  could  have  told  herself 
(but  never  did),  she  was  to  be  pitied,  not  blamed. 
Reticent  among  her  free-speaking  sisters,  shy,  what 
the  maids  call  *  a  deep  one,'  rarely  a  talker,  keeping 
always  her  own  counsel,  she  had  first  been  moved 
to  utter  herself  by  the  extreme  carelessness  of 
Ingram  whether  she  did  so  or  not.  The  blame — 
if  it  is  to  be  laid — must  be  upon  her  mother  when 
she,  knowing  Ingram's  story  of  miserable  marriage 
and  separation,  allowed  the  man  to  continue  a 
friend  of  the  house,  be  much  with  her  girl,  and 
unfold  himself  under  her  clear  young  eyes.  What 
she  was  about  —  that  masterful,  self-absorbed 
woman — there's  no  saying.  It  was  always  sup- 
posed that,  with  five  beautiful  daughters  to  market, 
she  had  pushed  Welbore  Percival  —  Thomas 
Welbore  Percival,  East  India  merchant  of  The 
Poultry — into  lavish  entertainment  of  his  friends 


136  REST  HARROW  book 

and  acquaintance.  Ingram,  a  squire  and  son  of 
squires,  was  perhaps  a  shade  above  her  degree  ; 
she  may  have  required  him  to  give  a  tone.  This, 
considering  that  wretched  marriage  of  his — a 
month's  engagement  in  defiance  of  head-shaking, 
a  blazing  Hanover  Square  wedding,  a  year's 
bickering,  one  month's  acrimony  (done  by  letter) 
and  Ingram's  unquenchable  hatred  of  the  woman 
— this,  I  say,  you  may  well  doubt.  But  I  can  give 
no  other  explanation.  He  came,  he  talked  in  his 
high-voiced,  querulous,  bitter-humoured  way,  he 
saw  and  sought  the  grave  young  Sanchia,  and  he 
won  her  pitying  heart  directly  he  had  engrossed 
her  watching  eyes. 

She  was  a  girl  intensely  interested  in  a  hundred 
dawning  things,  to  whom  love  had  come  late. 
Until  she  was  near  twenty  you  would  have  thought 
her  sexless.  Senhouse,  her  poetical  friend  and 
teacher — her  only  friend,  her  only  confidant — 
had  dubbed  her  Artemis  ;  and  it  may  well  have  been 
his  adoring  service  of  her  pure  flame  which  first 
turned  it  inwards,  to  scorch  her  heart.  All  that 
she  had  learned  of  this  scholar  gypsy  she  poured  out 
as  balm  over  the  stricken  Ingram,  who  swallowed  it 
and  her  together.  Then  the  truth  about  him  was 
blared  upon  her  suddenly,  and  she  found  that  he 
was  to  be  pitied.  Guileless  victim  of  a  hateful 
woman  as  she  believed  him  then,  she  found  that  she 
held  a  store  of  balm.  She  pitied  him  deeply,  she 
opened,  she  poured  out  her  treasure.  Enthusiasm 
for  the  saving  work  captained  her  thereafter  ; 
nothing  would  turn  her  from  her  purpose.  Ingram 
was  to  be  saved  by  love  :  she  gave  him  all. 


ii  SHE  ADMITS  THE  FACTS        137 

To  do  him  justice,  a  young  man  born  to  possess 
and  command,  he  did  his  best  to  repair  what  was 
beyond  repair.  He  told  her  the  truth  unasked  by 
her  ;  he  confessed  that  he  loved  her,  and  owned 
that  he  had  no  business  to  do  it.  Nearness, 
circumstance,  brooding  on  that  which  was  true  of 
both  of  them  and  must  not  be  uttered  by  either, 
did  the  rest.  Upon  that  evening  in  the  drawing- 
room  when  they  found  themselves  alone,  each 
trembling  under  the  god,  they  simply  drifted 
together,  and  without  effort  to  resist,  mingled 
their  natures  through  the  lips.  Discovery,  earth- 
quake and  eclipse,  her  mother's  chill  rage,  her 
father's  tears,  her  sisters'  dismay ;  all  this  and 
more  she  endured.  She  passioned  like  a  young 
martyr.  She  admitted  the  facts  without  comment, 
and  accepted  the  consequences  without  a  falter. 
They  might  have  whelmed  a  greater  heart  than 
hers ;  turned  on  to  the  town  as  she  was  to  all 
intents,  at  two-and-twenty,  a  girl  with  the  face 
and  figure  of  a  goddess,  with  fifty  pounds 
between  her  and  the  devil.  They  might  have 
sent  her,  at  the  least,  weeping  and  trembling 
into  Ingram's  arms.  But  they  did  not.  She 
was  of  finer  clay.  She  took  a  lodging  in  Pim- 
lico,  and,  to  fit  herself  for  employment,  went 
to  school.  The  commercial  course  which  she 
chose  was  the  shortest  possible,  but  all  that  she 
felt  she  could  afford.  *  My  dear  young  lady,  we 
can  only  promise  you  a  smattering — really  no 
more  for  the  money.'  *  It  must  start  me,'  said 
Sanchia,  and  began.  There  was  a  month  more  to 
run  when  Ingram  found  her,  and,  glad  as  she  was 


138  REST  HARROW  book 

of  him,  doting  and  doted  upon,  in  the  first  flood 
of  youth  and  love,  she  persisted  in  it,  finished  it 
out,  and  got  her  diploma  for  what  it  was  worth, 
before,  as  he  put  it,  she  would  listen  to  reason. 

It  sounded  extremely  reasonable  to  him  what 
he  then  proposed  ;  and  also  to  her,  though 
Chevenix  scorned  its  propounder.  As  Ingram  put 
it  to  her,  it  attracted  her  newborn  pride  of  know- 
ledge. She  was  to  flesh  her  steel,  so  to  speak, 
in  reality  :  in  plainer  words,  she,  with  her  smatter- 
ing of  accounts,  was  to  manage  a  great  house,  an 
army  of  servants,  possibly  an  estate.  Excessively 
in  love  as  she  was,  with  all  the  music  of  it  in  her 
untried  ears,  she  knew  already  in  herself  that  her 
mind  must  have  other  food  than  her  heart's  rapture. 
I  think,  indeed,  that  she  would  have  declined  him 
altogether  if  he  had  proposed  nothing  more  tangible 
to  her  than  perpetual  honeymoon.  That  was  what 
Senhouse  would  certainly  have  proposed  to  her — 
she  saw  that  in  every  look  of  his,  and  read  it  in 
every  line  he  sent  her  ;  but  that  had  never  attracted 
her.  She  had  given  Senhouse  her  confidence,  but 
not  her  heart.  Ingram's  proposals,  therefore, 
pleased  her.  She  had  not  a  sweet  enough  tooth, 
nor  the  taste  for  flattery  which  the  other  involved. 
She  was  entirely  without  vanity.  Therefore,  how- 
ever little  honourable  and  however  much  a  lover 
of  his  ease  Ingram  may  have  shown  himself  in 
making  them,  his  reasonable  proposals  were  grate- 
fully received.  It  was  he  who  suggested,  but  she 
who  took  the  lead.  She  began  immediately  to 
plan  her  new  career — was  perfectly  business-like. 
Ingram  was  to  leave  London  at  once,  and  go  to 


ii  SHE  GAVE  AND  GOT  139 

Wanless — to  his  duties  of  the  bench,  his  delights 
of  the  field,  cares  of  the  farm.  He  was  to 
announce  to  his  household  his  intention  of  ■  settling 
down ' ;  and  he  was  to  announce  the  advent  of 
a  housekeeper.  In  this  very  outset  of  his  bliss  he 
must  needs  do  as  she  bade  him.  He  went,  and 
made  her  ways  as  smooth  as  they  could  be  made. 
Her  rooms  were  assigned  to  her ;  her  duties 
mapped  out,  the  exact  range  of  her  authority. 
Her  wages  were  fixed,  to  be  paid  quarterly.  She 
would  take  nothing  else  from  him — no  jewellery 
(she  wore  nothing  but  simple  things,  which  had 
been  given  her  by  her  parents  or  sisters — amber,  a 
string  of  cowries,  an  agate  heart,  a  bangle  or  two), 
no  frocks.  She  was  to  have  two  hundred  a  year, 
and  throughout  her  time  to  this  present  she  had 
no  more,  and  kept  herself  exquisitely  upon  it,  with 
a  sense  of  what  was  due  to  him,  to  herself,  and  to 
her  position,  which  was  admirable,  unhesitating, 
and  never  at  fault.  In  due  time  she  arrived  and 
entered  upon  her  career.  That  which  was  unlawful 
seemed  now  justified  ;  the  secret  intimacy,  the 
wedded  amity,  the  giving,  which  was  the  dearest 
gain  she  had.  Discretion,  on  her  side  unsleeping, 
on  his  the  more  effective  because  he  never  seemed  to 
have  any,  secured  them.  There  was  no  open  scandal 
among  the  neighbours  ;  whatever  the  household 
may  have  suspected,  very  little  was  said.  Within  a 
year  her  servants  were  her  slaves.  The  Rector,  it 
is  true,  reproached  her  for  not  going  to  church. 
She  deprecated  his  indignation,  but  didn't  go. 

Up  to  the  day  when  we  first  met  with  her,  her 
garden-hat  in  her  hand,  reading  her  telegram  by 


i4o  REST  HARROW  book 

the  garden  window,  she  had  been  eight  years 
governor  of  Wanless — and  for  nearly  two  of  those 
years  alone.  For  the  first  two  or  three  of  them 
Ingram,  revelling  in  his  snug  ease,  with  little  to  do 
but  devise  things — alterations,  extensions,  ventures 
into  farming,  and  the  like,  which  it  was  her  delight 
to  execute — never  left  the  county,  hardly  cared  to 
leave  the  estate.  He  entertained  very  sparingly  : 
Chevenix  came  once  or  twice,  his  own  brother, 
Maxwell  Ingram  ;  there  were  some  dinner-parties 
to  the  countryside,  hunt-breakfasts,  once  a  hunt- 
ball,  at  none  of  which  ceremonies  did  she  appear. 
He  endured  these  wearinesses,  shrugging  them 
away  as  soon  as  he  could,  to  hasten  from  a 
dinner  of  dry  toast  and  knives  and  forks  to  his 
room — the  Master's  room — where  supper,  Sanchia, 
sweet  intimacy  awaited  him.  He  spent  thus  by 
far  the  cleanliest  and  most  sane  years  of  his 
wayward  life.  She  soothed,  amused,  stimulated 
him  at  once.  He  taught  her  all  he  knew  of 
country-lore,  gave  her,  as  they  say,  c  the  hang  ■  of 
landed  estate  ;  he  learned  by  teaching,  and  might 
have  become  a  wholesome  gentleman. 

But  domestic  business  called  him  to  London 
presently.  He  went,  and  was  away  three  months, 
with  lawyers,  fierce  threatenings  from  Claire,  inter- 
mediaries, friends  of  both  parties,  and  the  rest  of 
them.  He  was  worried,  flurried,  put  into  a  rage  ; 
exploded,  put  himself  a  thousand  times  in  the 
wrong  ;  finally,  he  came  back  to  Wanless  em- 
bittered and  restless.  He  came  back  to  find 
himself  welcome,  but  not  excessively  so.  At  least 
he   thought    not.     His   extensions,    suggested   in 


ii  SHE  WAS  KIND  14 1 

that  first  wonderful  time — a  range  of  glass-houses, 
new  heating  apparatus,  acetylene  gas  installations, 
were  well  advanced.  Sanchia's  brows  were  often 
knit  over  estimates,  specifications,  and  bills.  He 
had  to  pay  for  novelties  from  which  the  salt  had 
evaporated  ;  he  was  never  very  fond  of  paying, 
and  now,  it  seemed,  he  wasn't  very  fond  of  what 
he  had  to  pay  for.  Sanchia  was  kind  to  him,  but 
there  was  a  difference.  She  was  as  happy  as  the 
day  was  long,  always  at  work,  outdoors  or  in,  had 
not  a  moment  for  him  (business  apart)  until  the 
very  end  of  the  day,  when  (at  eleven  or  so)  she 
dressed  with  care  and  went  to  him  at  his  supper. 
Sanchia  was  perfectly  happy  ;  but  he  was  not. 

He  stayed  six  months  that  year — from  April 
to  September  ;  but  then  went  to  Scotland,  deer- 
stalking, shooting  pheasants.  He  was  back  for 
Christmas  and  brought  a  houseful  of  guests — all 
men.  Again  she  welcomed  him,  again  she  was 
kind.  He  was  now  a  little  blunted  to  the  fine 
shades  of  love,  took  his  happiness  as  it  happened 
to  come,  and  could  rub  his  hands  over  the  house- 
hold blessing  she  was.  By-and-by,  at  the  end  of 
her  fourth  year,  she  took  over  the  gardens  as  well 
as  the  house,  was  accepted  by  Mr.  Menzies  as  his 
liege-lady  and  by  young  Glyde  as  much  more 
than  that.  The  estate-management,  home-farm, 
woods,  tenancies,  were  given  up  to  her  at  the  end 
of  the  fifth  year,  just  before  Ingram  sailed  for 
West  Africa  on  a  shooting  expedition.  By  that 
time  he  had  grown  to  depend  upon  her  entirely 
for  everything.  She  was  become  the  faithful, 
well-tried   wife  of  standing,  which   in   a  man  of 


1 42  REST  HARROW  book 

Ingram's  bone  means  that  nothing  remained  of 
love  but  entire  confidence  and  occasional  gratifica- 
tion. After  this,  he  left  her  for  long  periods 
together  ;  for  the  whole  of  the  eighth  year  he 
was  abroad,  '  idiotically  happy/  as  he  had  told 
her. 

During  all  this  time  no  intercourse  with  her 
family — except  those  furtive  letters  from  her 
adoring  old  father,  which  were  pitiful  to  her, 
because  they  could  not  be  answered  as  he  would 
have  had  them  ;  and  nothing  from  her  friend  of 
the  Open,  who  had  at  last  got  himself  a  mate. 
It  seemed  that  she  had  made  a  clean  break,  and 
that  nothing  of  what  had  made  her  dawning  life 
sweet  and  sane  was  to  mingle  with  the  sweetness 
and  sanity  which  she  had  brought  into  Wanless. 
And  then — after  eight  years — she  caught  herself 
looking  back.  And  now — here  was  an  end  of 
the  dream. 

If  you  are  to  ask  me  what  had  changed  her 
regard  for  Ingram  during  that  solitary  year,  so 
that  she  received  him  at  the  end  of  it  as  she 
did,  I  don't  know  that  1  can  tell  you.  Slowly 
discovery — of  herself,  of  him — came  to  her, 
slowly  combustible  stuff  was  heaped  within  her  ; 
it  slowly  kindled,  and  smouldered  long.  No 
doubt  he  himself  blew  it  into  clear  flame  by  his 
let-drop  news  of  Claire's  death.  She  had  not 
known  that  :  she  never  read  the  newspaper,  having 
neither  time  for  the  world's  affairs  nor  interest  in 
them.  Suddenly,  by  that,  she  was  offended  ; 
suddenly  saw  him  as  he  really  was,  always  had  been, 
and  always  must  be.    Suddenly,  also,  she  saw  herself, 


SHE  LEARNED  TO  SEE  143 

as  brimming  with  life,  energy  to  live  and  to  make 
live,  at  the  end  of  her  music-time.  The  folds  fell 
from  her  eyes,  she  could  see  Ingram  as  a  man, 
squalid.  Nay,  more  :  she  could  now  see  him  as  a 
beast,  ravening.  Thereupon  he  gave  her  horror, 
so  that  she  dared  not  look  back  upon  her  hours 
of  blindness. 

Perhaps  he  had  offended  her  by  his  silence — 
his  two  letters,  which  she  had  neither  invited  nor 
answered.  That  can  hardly  account  for  it,  since 
she  had  not  written  to  him  of  her  own  initiative. 
Their  parting  certainly  had  been  discrepant  :  the 
clinging  and  wistfulness  had  been  hers,  though 
she  had  uttered  nothing  of  complaint  or  misgiving. 
But  perhaps  he  had  been  too  gay  and  nonchalant, 
a  little  too  much  the  husband  secure.  For  a 
week  she  had  shivered  at  her  loneliness ;  then 
she  had  plunged  anew  into  the  flood  of  affairs, 
and  had  come  out,  as  from  a  cold  bath,  braced 
and  tingling.  Round  went  the  wheels  of  Wanless. 
The  house  was  new-papered,  painted,  carpeted  ; 
every  month  brought  new  wonders  to  the  garden. 
Under  Glyde's  tuition,  seeing  with  his  eyes,  watch- 
ing with  his  tensity  of  vision,  she  had  come 
closely  into  Nature's  arms.  Perhaps  she  was 
unwise  with  the  young  man :  the  fact  is  she 
never  stopped  to  consider  him.  She  liked  him 
and  his  queer,  secret,  passionate  ways.  She  took 
a  royal  line  of  her  own.  She  required  much  of 
him,  and  if  he  made  much  of  it,  she  didn't  know 
it.  She  dreamed  no  harm  to  him  or  to  herself. 
Her  absorption  in  the  business  of  the  moment, 
or  the  needs,  was  so  manifest  that  not  even  the 


i44  REST  HARROW  book 

maids,  who  saw  her  frequently  with  the  youth, 
could  have  thought  harm  for  a  second.  It  was 
just  Miss  Percival  all  over — as  '  keen  as  mustard/ 
Perhaps  it  was  as  much  under  Glyde's  fostering 
as  any  other  nurture  that  she  came,  during  that 
year  alone,  to  love  the  earth  so  well  that  she 
could  appraise  the  worth  of  human  love.  I  don't 
know.     It  was  a  critical  year  for  her. 

As  she  was  anything  but  a  fool,  there's  no 
doubt  that  she  came,  before  the  end  of  that  year,  to 
know  what  was  the  matter  with  Glyde.  She 
had  had  experience — of  herself  and  another — and 
he  was  utterly  incapable  of  concealing  his  feelings. 
Of  course  she  knew  what  was  the  matter  with 
him,  and  was  tenderly  and  quietly  amused.  She 
approached  him  gradually,  let  herself  play  elder 
sister,  and  let  him  play  what  he  chose,  within 
severe  limits,  never  overstepped  by  him,  never 
unwatched  by  herself.  He  was  a  passionate, 
sensitive,  inarticulate  creature,  narrow  -  faced, 
sharp-eyed,  scowling  and  thin.  He  always  looked 
cold,  mostly  angry,  and  never  seemed  contented, 
even  when  his  plants  flowered  themselves  to  death 
to  please  him. 

A  woman,  any  woman,  knowing  that  a  man 
covets  her  possession,  stores  her  knowledge, 
exults  in  it  in  secret.  It  is  a  fund,  a  store 
against  lean  years  or  wry  ones.  You  can  see  it 
throned  sedately  in  her  eyes,  when  she  is  with 
him,  however  much  she  may  feel  his  absurdity 
or  presumption.  So  it  was  with  Sanchia.  She  was 
fully  conscious  of  Struan's  preposterous  state, 
strictly  the   elder  sister,  never  the  patroness,  for 


ii  SCHOOL  FOR  GLYDE  145 

were  they  not  bond-slaves  both  ?  She  patronised 
nobody  at  Wanless,  yet,  with  a  steady  eye  for 
distances,  kept  a  perfect  length,  varying  with 
each  oncomer.  With  Mr.  Menzies,  lord  of  the 
gardens,  so  far  on  she  came ;  with  Frodsham, 
master  of  horse  and  hound,  so  far ;  with  the 
engineer  so  far  ;  with  Minnie  nearer  ;  nearest  of 
all  with  Mrs.  Benson  :  her  attitude  to  the  stout 
woman  was  that  of  favourite  pupil  to  a  family 
governess  of  immemorial  service.  She  could 
wheedle  Mrs.  Benson,  and  often  did.  The 
elder  sister  attitude  was  kept  for  young  Glyde  ; 
she  admonished,  scolded,  preached  to  him  high 
doctrine  of  duty  and  honour  ;  there  was  some- 
thing benignant,  a  sort  of  pitying  care  shed  from 
above.  To  him  she  may  have  been  like  Cynthia, 
stooping  to  the  dreamer  on  Latmos.  Whether 
she  knew  that,  she  must  have  known  a  good  deal. 
She  knew,  for  instance,  that  he  kept  vigil ;  for 
she  had  met  him  at  night,  as  you  have  been  told. 
She  knew  where  to  find  him.  Nothing  had  ever 
passed  between  them,  of  course,  of  her  relations 
with  the  Master.  I  don't  think  that  she  was 
aware  of  his  sentry-go  under  the  windows — first 
under  Ingram's,  then  under  hers.  I  am  sure  she 
was  not,  or  he  would  have  heard  of  it  in  plain 
terms,  have  seen  her  eyes  grow  hard,  and  her 
mouth  stretch  to  bleakness.  She  was  capable  of 
royal,  cold  rage  when  she  was  offended.  But 
that  he  hated  Ingram  must  have  been  plain  to  her. 
And  now,  as  she  stood  at  gaze,  lonely  and 
pensive  by  the  black  pond,  she  saw  that  it  was  over 
— her  busy  life.     She  was  at  the  end  of  her  tether, 


146  REST  HARROW  book 

must  lose  her  power  and  the  sense  of  it.  She  was 
to  begin  the  world  again,  starting  with  her  fifty 
pounds,  and  without  that  which  had  made  it  a 
pride  before.  With  a  little  shiver  of  self-pity,  a 
half-sigh  and  a  tightening  of  the  lips,  she  accepted 
her  fate.     That  was  her  way. 

She  regretted  nothing,  asked  neither  for  mercy 
nor  allowance.  What  she  had  done,  she  had  done  ; 
if  it  was  to  be  done  with,  she  could  not  help  that  ; 
she  must  go  her  way.  Never  for  an  instant  did  it 
enter  her  head  that  she  could  marry  Ingram. 
Nothing  that  he  had  urged,  or  Chevenix  counselled, 
made  the  smallest  difference  to  her.  She  did  not 
love  Nevile  any  more  ;  he  was  horrible  to  her  : 
enough  of  that.  Whatever  her  fate  was  to  be,  she 
would  accept  it :  she  chose  it  so.  Without  reason- 
ing it  out,  that  was  final  for  her.  She  had  always 
had  sic  volo  for  her  final  cause.  Stet  pro  ratione 
voluntas.  Marriage,  even  nominal  marriage,  with 
Nevile  was  the  accursed  thing  :  none  of  it.  And 
why  ?     Because  she  chose  it  so. 

This  is  very  sublime.  I  sing,  or  Mr.  Senhouse 
sings,  a  Goddess  in  her  own  Right.  That  is  to  be 
observed,  or  we  fail.  Persons  have  existed,  and 
do  yet  exist,  who  are  law  unto  themselves, 
deliberate  choosers  of  their  fate,  deliberate  allies  of 
Atropos  with  the  shears,  who  go  what  seems  to 
us,  shivering  on  the  brink  of  things,  a  bright  and 
bloodstained  way,  and  furrow  deeply  into  life, 
because  it  must  be  so,  because  so  they  will  have  it. 
Great  ones  of  time,  a  Caesar  or  so,  a  Catherine,  a 
Buonaparte,  come  handily  to  mind,  who,  wreaking 
countless  woes,  wrought  evenly  their  own.     And 


„  HER  HIGH  CLAIM  147 

since  greatness  is  a  relative  term,  and  time  an 
abstraction  of  the  mind,  in  their  company,  says 
Mr.  Senhouse,  was  Sanchia  Percival,  and  in  her 
blue-clouded  eyes  was  to  be  discerned  seated,  like 
a  captain,  foreknowledge  of  her  own  fate,  and  will 
to  choose  it.  But,  as  for  Mr.  Senhouse  himself,  at 
this  time  of  envisaging  of  ways  I  don't  believe 
that  he  entered  her  head.  Small  blame  to  her, 
either,  seeing  that  the  man,  having  renounced  her, 
or  failed  of  her,  as  you  please,  had  taken  up  with 
his  Mrs.  Germain,  and  found  her  to  be  a  Fact,  as 
I  have  related. 

But  to  do  wrong  or  right,  the  prerogative  of 
choice  :  she  arrogated  that.  So,  I  think,  if  the 
sister  of  the  Far-Darter  had  ever  stepped  aside 
from  the  path  of  her  lonely  delight — as  some  have 
it  she  did  on  Latmos — she  would  have  done  it 
without  shame.  It  would  have  been  her  pleasure 
and  her  choice  ;  she  would  never  change  counten- 
ance or  have  to  breast  the  flood  of  colour.  It 
must  be  hers  to  take  up  or  discard  an  empire, 
or  a  Nevile  Ingram  of  Wanless  Hall.  So,  in  her 
degree,  did  Sanchia  Percival — of  the  stuff  of 
goddesses. 


IX 


Mrs.  Devereux  having  departed  as  impressively 
as  might  be  expected  of  a  lady  with  a  sense  of 
injury,  there  was  little  for  Chevenix  to  do  but  to 
follow  her  ;  for  whereas  Mrs.  Devereux  considered 
herself  badly  treated  by  both  parties  in  the  house, 
the  young  man  had  to  own  that  he  had  quarrelled 
with  his  host.  ■  I  laid  for  Nevile,'  he  told  Sanchia, 
*  and  he  don't  let  me  forget  it,  either.  He  don't 
like  commentators  on  his  text — never  did.  So 
he's  making  Wanless  too  hot  to  hold  me.' 

Sanchia,  with  rueful  eyes,  feared  that  this  was 
her  fault.  '  I'm  very  sorry,'  she  said.  i  On  all 
accounts  I'm  very  sorry.  I  shall  miss  you.  -It 
was  nice  to  see  you  again.' 

1  See  me  again,'  cried  Chevenix,  *  as  soon  as 
you  please  ;  but  not  here — unless  you  feel  you 
can  make  up  your  mind  to  settle  down,  as  we 
call  it.' 

She  shook  her  head.  c  I  don't  think  I  can. 
I  think  it  might  be  wicked — as  things  are.' 

Chevenix  raised  his  eyebrows.  '  That's  you  all 
over,  my  dear.  Other  people's  Right  is  your 
Wrong.  Why  question  the  decrees  of  the  police  ? 
They  tell  you  that  you  may  do  what  you  please 
when  you're  married,  but  not  before.     But  you 

148 


bk.  ii  SENHOUSE  GLIMMERS  149 

won't  have  that.  Of  course,  if  you  can't  swallow 
Nevile,  you  can't — and  there's  an  end  of  it. 
Only,'  he  added,  'there  must  be  an  end  of  it. 
You're  in  a  false  position — now.' 

'According  to  you  I  always  was,'  said  the 
candid  young  lady,  and  made  him  change  counte- 
nance.    She  shirked  nothing. 

1  I  did  think  so  once  ;  we  all  did,  you  know. 
Even  your  bare-footed  friend,  What's-his-name — ' 

'  Mr.  Senhouse.' 

'  Beg  your  pardon.  Mr.  Senhouse,  of  course. 
Well,  he  didn't  take  it  sitting  down,  so  to  speak. 
Did  he  now  ? ' 

She  considered.  Her  eyes  grew  gentle  over  the 
remembrances  which  this  name  always  called  up. 
1  He  knew  that  I  was  right.  Oh,  yes.  I'm  sure  of 
that.  But  he  was  frightened.  He  lost  his  nerve 
because — ' 

'  Because  it  was  you,  my  dear,'  said  Chevenix 
briskly.     She  owned  soberly  to  that. 

'  I  shall  see  your  people  when  I  get  to  town,' 
he  told  her.  '  I  shall  make  a  point  of  seeing 
Vicky  and  your  governor.  And  if  I  could  drop 
in  upon  Senhouse,  by  George,  I'd  risk  it.  You 
don't  know  where  he  is  just  now,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  He  was  in  the  Black  Forest  when  I  last  heard 
from  him,'  she  said,  'and  was  going  to  the 
Caucasus — to  collect  plants.  That  was  a  long 
time  ago.  Three  years,  I  should  think.  He 
doesn't  write  now.      He's  married,  you  know.' 

'  Married  ? '  he  repeated,  with  open  eyes.  '  I 
never  knew  that.' 

'  He  married  a  Mrs.  Germain — a  widow.' 


150  REST  HARROW  book 

Chevenix  stared,  then  slapped  his  leg.  *  Then 
that  accounts  for  it!  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  met  him 
when  I  went  out  to  Brindisi  to  see  Nevile  off — 
met  him  on  a  steamer,  with  a  pretty  woman  ? 
That  was  Mrs.  G. — his  pretty  woman.  Good 
Lord,  how  rum  ! '  He  laughed,  staring.  Then, 
*  What  on  earth  did  he  do  that  for  ?  She's  not 
his  sort.  And  I  gave  myself  away — confoundedly 
— to  each  of  'em  in  turn.  You'll  never  believe 
it,  but  I  told  him  that  she'd  always  been  in  love 
with  Tristram  Duplessis,  and  then  I  gave  her  to 
understand  what  had  been  the  matter  with  old 
Senhouse.'  He  exploded,  then  grew  mighty 
serious.  '  That's  rather  a  bore.  I  was  counting  on 
him,  you  know.     I  thought  you  might  want  him.' 

Sanchia  made  no  reply.  About  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  there  lurked  the  hint  of  a  smile,  which 
her  wistful  eyes  belied.  Chevenix  watched  her, 
but  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

'  He  was  a  rum  'un,'  he  continued.  *  The  first 
time  I  saw  him  after  you  came  up  here,  was  when 
I  ran  against  him  by  chance  in  Norfolk  somewhere. 
Spread  abroad  he  was— in  flannels — all  his  things 
strewn  about.  He  had  a  little  fire  going,  and  a 
little  pot  on  it.  Doing  a  job  of  tinkering,  he  said, 
to  oblige  a  lady.  There  was  the  lady,  too,  if  you 
please,  sitting  on  a  bank,  smoking  a  clay.  She 
had  a  beard,  and  an  old  wide-awake  on  her  head. 
Senhouse  introduced  me,  I  remember.  He  told 
me  he  was  on  his  way  North — Wastwater,  I  think. 
A  planting  job  up  there — or  something.  Rum 
chap  that !  Oh,  one  of  the  very  rummest !  He 
asked  me  a  lot  about  you.     I  didn't  know  how 


ii  HE  SPEAKS  FROM  AFAR  151 

much  he  knew,  so  I  went  very  pussy.  The  chap 
was  as  sharp  as  a  needle.  Spotted  me.  He  said, 
"  My  dear  sir,  I  don't  ask  you  what  she  is  doing 
or  where  she  is.  I  ask  you  if  she  is  well."  Then 
I  told  him  a  lot — about  you,  and  Nevile,  and  all 
this  business.  I  let  out,  I  tell  you.  I  was  fairly 
deep  in  the  thing — you  know  that  I  felt  pretty 
badly,  because  it  was  my  fault  that  you  ever  knew 
Nevile  at  all.  Don't  you  suppose  I've  ever  for- 
given myself  that,  Sancie  ;  never  you  suppose  it. 
No,  no/ 

He  was  much  moved.  She,  by  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, put  out  her  hand  to  him.'  He  wrung  it, 
and  said,  ■  Thanks,  Sancie  ;  thanks,  my  dear.' 

After  a  wrestling  bout,  he  went  on  :  '  Do  you 
know  what  that  fellow  said  to  me  ?  I  should  like 
you  to  know  it.  Mind  you,  he  was  yours,  body 
and  soul,  then — whatever  he  may  be  now.  I  think 
he's  yours  still,  for  that  matter — but  then  !  He 
never  concealed  it — so  far  as  I  know — from  any- 
body. Now,  listen  to  me.  He  heard  me  out, 
never  said  anything  till  I'd  done.  Then  he  looked 
out  over  the  marshes  into  the  weather,  and  he  said, 
"  No  harm  ever  came  to  a  good  woman.  I  shall 
see  her  again,  crowned."  Now,  what  do  you  say 
to  that  ?     Queer,  isn't  it  ? ' 

Sanchia  blushed  deeply  and  bent  her  head. 
Chevenix  marked  her  confusion,  and  varied  his 
tone  to  suit  the  case.  He  became  practical. 
*  Now,  what'U  he  say  about  this  new  state  of  affairs, 
do  you  suppose  ? ' 

She  lifted  her  head.  '  He  will  think  me  in  the 
right.' 


152  REST  HARROW  book 

Chevenix  shrugged.  '  There's  going  to  be 
trouble,'  he  believed.  '  There's  bound  to  be,  just 
on  that  account.  Nevile  can  be  a  brute  when  he's 
in  the  wrong,  and  knows  it.' 

Sanchia  squared  her  jaw  for  trouble. 

i  He  wants  you  back,  you  know,  awfully — 
because  you  won't  come.  And  the  more  he  wants 
you  the  less  he'll  say  so.  That's  the  pride  of  the 
cobbler's  dog.  If  he's  uncomfortable,  he'll  scratch 
until  he's  comfortable  again.  And  he  says,  "  If 
you  can't  get  the  best  take  the  next  best "  ;  and 
runs  about  with  Mrs.  Wilmot  at  his  heels,  and  is 
bored  all  the  time.  That's  Nevile  all  over.'  His 
eyes  grew  rounder.  'You'll  have  to  go,  you 
know.' 

She  admitted  that.  '  Yes,  I  must.'  Then  she 
sighed.  '  I  don't  want  to  go.  There's  such  a  lot 
to  be  done  here.' 

'Yes,  yes,  my  dear,'  said  Chevenix  with  some 
irritation.  *  No  doubt  there  is.  But  you  can't 
afford  it.' 

He  stammered  out  his  next.  *  I  should  like  to 
say,  Sancie,  that  there's  nobody  on  earth  I  respect — 
for  whom  I  have  more  respect  than  for  you.  I 
don't  understand  your  point  of  view — don't 
pretend  to.  But  I  know  a  fine  thing  when  I  see 
it.  I'm  not  much  of  a  chap,  I  know — no  brains, 
and  all  that — simple,  rotten  chap,  I  know  ;  but  if 
we're  not  going  to  be  friends  I  shall  be  unhappy.' 

'  We  are,  I  hope,'  she  said,  smiling  kindly  at 
him.     She  gave  him  her  hand. 

'  Right,  Sancie.  Look  here,'  he  said  sternly. 
*  I'll  punch  Nevile's  head  for  you,  if  you  like.' 


ii  MRS.  WILMOT  IS  JUDGED        153 

1 1  shouldn't  like  it  at  all,'  she  assured  him. 

*  We're  old  acquaintances,  you  know.  He'd 
take  it  from  me  better  than  from  any  one  else — 
like  Senhouse.' 

'  Mr.  Senhouse  would  never  touch  him,'  she 
was  sure. 

He  dropped  in  Chevenix's  estimation  immedi- 
ately.    'Quaker,  eh?     I  didn't  know  that.' 

Sanchia  explained.  '  He  can't  be  changed  in 
those  sort  of  things.  He  would  only  use  force 
against  wild  beasts.' 

1  Well,'  cried  Chevenix,  '  what  do  you  think 
Nevile's  going  to  be  ?  My  advice  to  you  is  to 
get  out  as  soon  as  you  can.  And  when  you're  in 
town,  command  me.'     They  parted  firm  friends. 

Mrs.  Wilmot  remained,  against  her  inmost 
judgment,  against  her  maid  Purcell's  clear  advice, 
for  one  more  day.  The  night  of  Chevenix's 
departure  she  was  there,  and  on  the  morrow  was 
to  be  conveyed  to  the  Trenchards',  across  the 
county.  Wanless  had  her  steadily  in  its  score  pair 
of  eyes  for  twenty-four  hours,  as  Purcell,  her  maid, 
had  foreseen.  ■  You  are  doing  a  strange  thing, 
ma'am,  permit  me  to  say.'  Purcell  was  an  elderly 
spinster,  who  only  required  her  own  permission  to 
say  what  she  pleased.  '  You  will  be  watched  and 
reported.  I  suppose  I  am  not  in  the  servants'  hall 
for  nothing.'  Mrs.  Wilmot  said  feebly  that  she 
supposed  she  was  there  for  meals.  Purcell  stiffened 
her  wiry  neck.  ■  Meals,  ma'am  !  In  the  best 
houses  there's  a  second  table.  The  butler  may  be 
there,  and  perhaps  the  valet.     The  lady's  maid,  of 


154  REST  HARROW  book 

course.  But  where  there's  no  lady,  one  may  put 
up  with  the  cook,  though  the  cook  in  such  houses 
is  rarely  a  female.  But  the  housekeeper  here ! 
A  Miss  Percival  !  Dines  alone — or  is  said  to — 
and  the  cook  sits  at  the  head  of  our  table.  This  is 
no  house  for  you,  ma'am/ 

The  lady  gave  a  little  cry  and  hoisted  a  white 
shoulder.  '  Oh,  Purcell,  you  are  hurting  me 
dreadfully.  Do  be  more  gentle  with  me.  You 
are  tearing  my  hair  out  by  handfuls.  What  can  it 
matter  to  you  where  Miss — where  the  housekeeper 
dines  ? ' 

*  Ho/  said  Purcell,  *  little  or  nothing — to  me, 
ma'am.  I  cannot  help  my  thoughts.  But  I  keep 
them  to  myself.  Not  one  word  in  this  house — 
downstairs — of  Miss  Percival.  Not  one  word. 
They  keep  their  mouths  shut,  I  promise  you, 
and  their  eyes  open.  But  what  you  will,  you  will. 
As  for  Mr.  Ingram,  the  less  I  say  the  better/ 

*  Much  the  better/  said  Mrs.  Wilmot,  fretfully 
wriggling  under  the  comb. 

That  fine  afternoon — April  budding  into  May — 
this  lady  listened  to  Ingram  in  the  garden.  Of  all 
sounds  in  the  world  the  sweetest  music  for  her  ear 
was  made  by  a  man's  voice  embroidering  the  theme 
— *  You  are  lovely  ;  you  are  cruel ;  /  die.'  Ingram's 
descant  on  the  golden  phrase  was  querulous,  after 
his  manner.  He  took  his  lover's  smarts,  as  one 
must  suppose  them,  hardly.  As  thus :  '  You  are 
lovely — but  what's  that  to  me,  if  I  can't  touch  you  ? 
You  sting  my  eyes,  you  inflame,  you  wound — or  I 
think  you  do ;  here  am  1,  tied  by  the  leg  to  a  dead 


ii  INGRAM'S  CONSOLATIONS        155 

woman — for  dead  to  me  she  is,  the  she-cat  Sanchia 
— looking  at  you  because  I  can't  help  myself. 
You  are  soft  and  lax,  you  purr  when  I  stroke  you ; 
I  could  make  a  pet  of  you.  Was  ever  a  man  of 
property  and  station  in  such  a  case  ? 

*  You  are  cruel — because,  though  I  could  put  out 
my  hand  and  take  you,  yet  you  expect  me  to  do 
it.  That's  all  over,  for  me.  I've  done  that  sort 
of  thing — Sanchia  knows.  Now  I  must  trouble 
you  to  advance.  I'm  sick  of  life  on  these  terms  : 
you  could  make  life  worth  living.  I  must  really 
trouble  you  :  sorry  to  seem  languid,  but  I  am 
languid.  You,  with  your  fine  sensibilities,  ought 
to  be  the  first  to  feel  that  ;  but  no  :  you  wait, 
looking  exquisite,  with  eyes  like  blue-black  water, 
and  a  mouth,  a  mouth  like  a  flower.  You  soft 
gossamer  beauty,  I  could  crush  you  where  you 
hover ;  but  you  won't  come  and  be  crushed. 
Certainly,  you  are  cruel. 

/  die.  He  avoided  that.  It  was  absurd.  She 
thought  for  one  moment  that  he  hinted  it  when  he 
said,  shrugging  off  his  ranges  of  hot-house — 'Good 
of  their  kind,  I  fancy.  But  what  good  are  they  to 
me — a  solitary  beggar  ?  I  never  go  into  'em,  you 
know.  I  thought  I  should  take  an  interest  when 
I  had  'em  put  up.  It  looked  like  it — but  now  I 
who  cares  whether  I  go  into  'em  or  not  ?  Who 
cares  whether  I  live  or  die  ? '  There  had  been  a 
pathetic  ring  there. 

She  had  murmured  a  gentle  rebuke  ;  her  eyes 
had  brimmed,  reproaching  him.  It  was  then  that 
he  had  taken  her  hand,  at  the  going-out  from  the 
fig-house.     *  Ruth,'  he  had  said,  *  my  kind,  pretty 


156  REST  HARROW  book 

Ruth.'  Then  he  stooped  his  head  and  kissed  her. 
Through  three  pairs  of  doors  Glyde,  in  the  peach- 
house,  had  seen  the  act,  and  paused  in  his  spraying. 
It  was  over  in  a  minute.  The  pair  strolled  away 
and  passed  out  of  the  walled-garden.  Glyde,  who 
had  turned  very  white,  compressed  his  lips  and 
went  back  to  his  work — like  a  machine.  Presently 
a  light  step  made  him  start,  look  guardedly  up, 
watch  and  wait.  Sanchia,  bare-headed,  fresh  and 
d&bonnaire,  came  in,  like  a  stream  of  west  wind. 
Her  eyes  beamed  her  health  and  pleasure.  '  Oh, 
Struan,'  she  said,  *  do  come  and  see  the  Susianas. 
They  are  on  the  very  point  of  opening.  Do  come. 
There's  nobody  about.  They've  gone  down  to 
the  river/ 

He  could  not  face  her,  knowing  what  he  knew. 
But  he  could  not  resist  her  either.  *  I'll  come,'  he 
said,  and  followed  her. 

She  went  gaily  and  eagerly.  '  You've  never 
done  so  well  with  them  as  this  year.  I  counted 
a  dozen.  Huge !  I  felt  rather  miserable  this 
morning  ;  I've  been  worried  rather.  I  thought  I 
would  just  see  what  they  would  do  for  me.  They 
made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  Their  strength, 
their  contentedness — just  to  grow,  and  be  strong 
and  well  !  Nothing  more.  What  else  ought  we 
to  want  ?  Food — the  sun — strength  to  grow  ! 
Isn't  that  enough  ? '  She  was  echoing  Senhouse 
here,  and  felt  an  added  glow  to  remember  it.  He 
had  been  much  in  her  thoughts  since  her  last 
exchange  with  Chevenix. 

Out  of  the  warm  brown  soil,  sheltered  by  the 
eaves,   the  iris  clump   made   a  brave  show.      Its 


ii  SANCHIA  AND  A  MYSTERY       157 

leaves  like  grey  scimitars,  its  great  flower-stems 
like  spears.  Stiffly  they  reared,  erect,  smooth, 
well  -  rounded,  and  each  was  crowned  with  the 
swollen  bud  of  promise.  She  displayed  them 
proudly,  she  counted  them,  made  him  check  her 
counting.  She  glowed  over  them,  fascinated  by 
their  virile  pride.  Struan  watched  her  more  than 
her  treasures.  He  was  pale  still,  and  bit  his  lip  ; 
had  nothing  to  say. 

She  knelt  and  took  one  of  the  great  stalks 
tenderly  in  her  hand.  A  kind  of  rapture  was  upon 
her,  a  mystic's  ecstasy.  She  passed  her  closed 
hand  up  and  down,  feeling  the  stiff  smoothness  ; 
she  clasped  and  pressed  the  bursting  bud.  *  Feel 
it,  Struan,  feel  it,'  she  said.  ■  It's  alive.'  He 
turned,  shaking,  away. 

'They  say,'  she  went  on,  caressing  the  bud, 
1  that  this  is  really  the  Lily  of  the  Annunciation. 
It's  a  symbol,  I've  read.  Gabriel  held  one  in  his 
hand  when  he  stood  before  Our  Lady.  Did  you 
know  that  ?  ' 

Glyde  broke  out.  'Don't.  Don't.  Come 
away.  I  must  speak  to  you — quickly — if  I  dare. 
Come  away  from  here.' 

He  spoke  fiercely,  meaning  what  he  said.  Grave, 
sobered,  she  arose  and  followed  him.  He  drew 
her  after  him  to  the  yew-tree  walk,  to  the  enclosure 
at  its  end,  where  the  leaden  Faun  capered  and 
grinned.     There  he  faced  her. 

4  You  must  leave  this  place,'  he  said  shortly. 
She  looked  to  the  ground. 

1 1  know,'  she  replied  in  a  low  voice. 

1  Every  moment  you  stop  here  insults  you,  puts 


158  REST  HARROW  book 

shame  upon  you.  Shame  !  And  on  you  !  It's 
not  bearable.  It's  not  to  be  suffered.  I'll  not 
suffer  it  for  one.' 

At  this  she  lifted  her  head  and  reproved  him 
by  a  look.  It  was  mild,  queenly  mild,  but  not 
weak.  Remote  from  him  and  his  world,  it  said, 
1  I  can't  hear  you.' 

He  understood  it  so.  '  Who  says  I  may  not 
speak  to  you  ?  Who  else  is  to  speak  to  you  if  I 
don't  ?  How  can  you  bear  yourself  and  speak 
nothing  ?  Is  it  natural  ? '  He  seemed  on  the  point 
of  angry  tears  ;  with  a  gesture  infinitely  kind  she 
bore  with  him.     Her  hand  just  touched  his  arm. 

*  Dear  Struan,'  she  said,  '  I  know  how  nice  you 
mean  to  be  to  me  ;  I  am  very  grateful  to  you.  Of 
course  I  am  going  away.  I  have  brought  every- 
thing on  myself,  and  must  bear  the  consequences 
by  myself.  But  I  have  been  happy  here,  lately, 
and  shall  be  most  unhappy  to  go.  I  have  so  many 
friends  here.'  Then,  after  looking  at  him,  reflect- 
ing, she  added,  '  Of  course  I  know  that  you  care.' 

*  Care  ! '  he  cried  out,  scornfully.  *  Do  you 
think  that  I've  watched  you,  in  and  out,  for  three 
years  without  caring  ?  Do  you  think  that  I  have 
schooled  myself  to  put  up  with — with  him — with- 
out caring  ?  And  when  I  thought  that  he  was 
coming  back  here  to — to  prove  himself  an  honour- 
able man — I  thanked  the  Lord.  Yes,  I  did  that.  I 
was  ready  to  go  when  I  knew  he  was  coming  back 
for  that.  I  told  you  I  would  go — and  I  meant 
it.  I  should  have  cut  my  heart  out  and  left  it 
here,  and  gone  away — clean  away,  glorifying  and 
praising   God.      But — oh,   it's  hideous,   hideous ! 


ii  FIERCENESS  OF  GLYDE  159 

You  are  discarded — you  !  Cast  off — you  !  Peer- 
less as  you  are — you  !  Oh,  my  Saviour,  what's 
this  ? '  He  broke  away,  and  sobbed.  He  dashed 
his  arm  over  his  eyes  in  a  rage  with  himself.  She 
was  very  gentle  with  him  now. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  though 
he  shook  it  off,  put  it  there  again.  'You  hurt 
me,  Struan,  really.  If  you  are  my  friend,  you 
shouldn't  doubt  me.  I  don't  feel  about  it  as  you 
do,  you  know.' 

He  lifted  his  head  at  the  challenge.  *  Then  you 
should,'  he  said.  *  Dog  that  he  is.  He's  insulting 
you.  He  had  better  have  died  than  do  as  he 
does.  Damn  him,  he  shall  pay  for  it.'  She  shook 
her  head,  smiling  rather  dismally. 

c  I  can't  talk  to  you  any  more  if  you  don't 
understand  why  I  can't  talk  to  you,'  she  said. 
*  There  are  things  which  friends  cannot  do  for 
each  other — which  we  have  to  do  alone.' 

The  lad  gasped  and  made  a  step  towards  her. 
He  could  not  control  himself — he  shook. 

*  Not  you — never  you.  I'll  die  for  you — and 
you  know  it.'  She  looked  at  him  full,  then  left 
him. 


Mrs.  Wilmot  stayed  for  the  better  part  of  a  week 
longer  than  she  had  intended,  and  then,  perceiving 
by  subtle  but  unmistakable  signs  that  she  would 
wiselier  go,  went.  To  Wanless  that  had  been  a 
week  of  strain  ;  the  air  was  charged  with  trouble. 
One  could  not  have  pointed  to  anything — it  was 
beyond  the  range  of  weathercock  or  glass  ;  but 
everybody  felt  it.  Sanchia,  graver  than  she  was 
wont  to  be,  pushed  herself  sharply  from  duty  to 
duty,  and  avoided  sympathy  by  a  dry  manner. 
Or  she  was  obtuse,  affecting  a  foolish  interest  in 
trivialities.  She  never  went  into  the  garden,  and 
saw  nothing  of  young  Glyde.  Mrs.  Benson, 
glooming  thunder  from  her  brows,  Minnie  with 
scare  in  her  russet  eyes  turned  Purcell's  feasts  into 
fasts.  The  wiry  tire-woman,  to  do  her  justice, 
was  as  uncomfortable  as  any  of  them  ;  but  loyalty 
spurred  her  to  feats  of  endurance  undreamed  of 
by  any  but  servants.  They,  in  a  world  of  their 
own,  where  speech  is  rare,  and  skins  rarer,  where 
everything  must  be  done  by  glances  and  hints,  are 
perhaps  more  aware  of  themselves  than  any  other 
children  of  men.  They  are  for  ever  judging  their 
betters  ;  how  shall  they  escape  from  judgment  of 
each  other  ?     Judge    not,  says  the  Book  ;  but  if 

1 60 


bk.ii  GLYDE  IN  BLACK  161 

you  pry  for  vice,  what  can  you  be  yourself  but  a 
prying-ground  ?  So  Purcell  agonised,  and  felt 
her  very  vitals  under  the  hooks.  The  case  was 
past  praying  for.     She  suffered  and  was  dumb. 

At  last  the  delicate  beauty,  seeing  Adonis  faint 
in  the  chase — for  Ingram,  as  a  lover,  was  languid 
and  gloomy — was  helped  into  her  lacy  draperies, 
helped  into  the  carriage,  driven  to  the  station  ; 
and  Ingram,  on  horseback,  rode  by  her  side.  He 
helped  her  into  the  train,  stored  her  with  magazines, 
kissed  her  mouth,  revolted  at  her  tears,  and  re- 
turned sulkily,  with  hard-rimmed  eyes,  at  a  foot's 
pace  to  his  halls.  Midway  of  the  carriage-drive, 
instinctively,  he  tightened  the  rein  ;  for  Glyde 
stepped  out  of  the  undergrowth  some  ten  paces 
ahead,  and  stood,  waiting  for  him.  He  was 
dressed,  not  for  the  garden  (in  shirt-sleeves  and 
baize),  but  in  his  blacks,  and  had  a  soft  felt  hat  on 
his  head,  basin-shaped,  with  the  brim  over  his  eyes. 
*  Now  what  the  devil  does  that  chap  want,  play- 
acting here  ? '  was  Ingram's  inquiry  of  the 
Universe. 

Glyde,  as  the  horse  drew  level,  came  within 
touch  of  his  flank,  and  told  Ingram  that  he  wished 
to  speak  with  him. 

1  Eh  ? '  said  Ingram  ;  and  then,  ■  oh,  what  a 
nuisance/  He  felt  himself  injured.  *  Well,  what 
is  it,  Glyde  ? ' 

Glyde  said,  *  I  wish  to  give  notice,  if  you 
please.'  The  manner  of  address  was  curt  and 
offensive. 

1  Oh,  do  you  ? '  Ingram  said.  ■  Well,  then,  you 
had   better  do  it  in  the  proper  way.     See  Miss 


1 62  REST  HARROW 

Percival  about  it,  will  you  ? '  He  pressed  his 
knees  in  as  if  to  continue  his  way. 

Glyde,  however,  stood  by  the  horse's  head. 

1 1  have  seen  Miss  Percival  about  it,  Mr. 
Ingram/  he  said.  1 1  saw  her — a  week  ago.  And 
now  I've  got  to  see  you  about  it.' 

Ingram  looked  at  him  sharply  —  a  sudden 
stiffening  of  the  spine  ;  spine  stiff  and  eyes  sharp, 
acting  together.  What  he  saw  made  him  the 
more  alert. 

*  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ? '  he  asked. 

*  I'll  tell  you,'  said  Glyde.  I'm  free  of  your 
service  from  this  minute,  so  I'll  tell  you.  I  say 
that  you  are  a  damned  scoundrel,  and  that  you 
know  it.'  A  concentration  of  many  grudges, 
kept  very  still,  as  by  white  heat,  characterised  this 
remarkable  speech. 

Ingram  blenched.  *  By  George,  my  man/  he 
said,  '  you'll  have  to  make  that  good.' 

Glyde  said,  'And  I  will.  You  have  behaved, 
you  are  behaving,  like  a  dog  in  this  house  ;  and 
you're  to  take  a  dog's  wages.' 

Ingram  jumped  in  his  saddle,  rose  in  his  stirrups. 
'  By  God,'  he  said,  ■  by  God — '  but  he  said  no 
more. 

Glyde  sprang  up  at  him  where  he  stood  above 
his  saddle,  unseated — sprang  up  at  him,  took  him 
by  the  shoulders  and  then  dropping,  pulled  him 
off  his  horse.  The  freed  animal,  startled,  kicked 
out,  shook  his  head,  and  cantered  gaily  homewards. 
Glyde,  having  Ingram  on  the  ground,  took  him  by 
the  collar  of  his  jacket  and  belaboured  him  with 
his  open  hand.      He  cuffed  him  like  a  schoolboy, 


ii  INGRAM  ON  HIS  BACK  163 

boxed  him  about  the  ears  and  face,  shook  him  well, 
and  then  cast  him  into  the  young  bracken  of  his 
own  avenue.  '  There's  for  you,  seducer/  he  said  ; 
and  that  done,  he  walked  steadily  up  the  road 
towards  the  lodge  gates. 

Ingram,  on  his  feet,  in  a  rage  which  was  the 
most  manly  he  could  have  suffered,  went  after 
him  at  a  run,  and  caught  him  up.  '  You  black- 
guard,' he  said,  and  panted.  *  Turn  and  fight 
with  me.' 

Glyde  stopped.  *  I'll  not  fight  with  you,  Ingram/ 
was  his  measured  reply,  ■  because  I've  that  in  me 
which  would  kill  you.  No  mercy  for  you  there. 
You  can  go  as  you  please  ;  you  can  send  me  to 
gaol  or  not ;  but  you  shan't  get  me  hanged.  I've 
something  to  do  with  my  life — as  much  of  it  as 
you  leave  me  ;  and  I  want  it.'  As  Ingram  glared 
at  him,  crimson  now,  with  bulging  eyes  and  teeth 
at  lips,  the  other  went  on.  *  I'm  going  no  farther 
to-day  than  my  lodging.  Your  police  will  find 
me  there  when  you  send  'em.  I  shan't  fight  them, 
because  I  can't  afford  it ;  and  I  shan't  fight  you, 
dog  that  you  are,  for  the  same  reason.'  Ingram 
cursed,  and  sprang  at  him,  but  Glyde  stiffened 
his  arm  and  held  him  off.  Master  was  no  match 
for  man,  and  felt  no  better  for  the  knowledge  of 
that.  It  did  serve,  however,  to  bring  him  to  his 
senses.  He  saw  that  he  was  making  an  ass  of 
himself. 

*  You'll  hear  more  of  this,'  he  said,  and  turned 
and  walked  rapidly  back  to  the  house. 

Mortification   inflamed    his  rage ;    his  furious 


1 64  REST  HARROW  bookh 

walking  blew  into  it  a  sense  of  incurable  injury. 
Injury,  shocked  pride,  and  animal  heat  altogether 
made  a  devil  of  him.  He  went  directly  to  his 
own  room,  and  rang  the  bell.  ■  Send  Miss  Percival 
to  me,'  he  told  Minnie,  *  at  once.' 

Then  he  waited  for  her,  with  a  face  like  a  rat. 


XI 

She  might  have  gathered  warning  from  Minnie's 
panting  summons,  but  had  been  busy  over  her 
accounts  and  had  noticed  nothing  amiss. 

*  He  wants  you,  Miss  Percival !  Don't  go  ! ' 
She  had  scarcely  heard.  She  said,  '  Who  wants 
me  ?  Mr.  Ingram  ?  I'll  come  '  ;  and  though  the 
maid  stammered,  ■  I  wouldn't,  oh,  I  wouldn't,' 
had  gone. 

The  face  he  showed  her  from  his  bureau,  where 
he  sat  huddled  over  a  litter  of  papers,  prepared  her 
instantly  for  crisis  ;  snarling,  white  and  wicked, 
yet  it  had  tragedy  in  it — as  if  he  knew  that  he  had 
himself  to  reckon  with  beyond  all. 

For  some  time  he  seemed  not  to  see  her,  though 
he  looked  at  her.  He  sat  glooming,  like  a  man 
dumb  in  high  fever,  working  his  lower  jaw,  screw- 
ing and  unscrewing  his  hands.  Afterwards  she 
believed  that  he  had  been  groping  for  the  cruellest 
thing  he  could  say,  and  was  goaded  into  what  he 
did  say  by  the  sense  that  he  could  find  nothing. 

*  So  that  was  your  work  ?  Your  choice  way ! 
To  set  one  of  my  own  servants  to  club  me.' 

She  looked  at  him  blankly  ;  but  her  face  glowed 
with  sudden  fire.  *  1  haven't  the  least  notion  what 
you  mean.     Who  has  clubbed  you  ? ' 

165 


1 66  REST  HARROW 

His  eyes  flickered.  c  Glyde.  Your  friend. 
You  seek  your  champions  all  about,  it  seems. 
You  make  things  snug  for  yourself.  It's  master 
or  man  with  you — it's  all  one. 

He  spluttered  his  venom  broadcast.  She  held 
up  her  head.  *  Are  your  insulting  me  ?  '  He 
wheeled  round  full  in  his  chair. 

c  Is  it  possible  to  insult  you  ? ' 

At  that  she  lowered  her  panoply  of  fire,  and 
grew  still.     «  I  see  that  you  are.     I  can't  allow  that.' 

He  foamed.  '  Bullies  in  your  hire.  Now  I 
see  what  Bill  Chevenix  was  after.  And  Glyde — 
faugh  !  who  else  ? ' 

She  watched  him  steadily  without  fear  or 
disgust.  His  words  held  no  meaning  for  her.  'I 
think  you  must  be  mad,'  she  said.  *  It  will  be 
better  if  I  go.' 

He  scoffed  at  her.  '  Better  !  You  are  right/ 
He  rose  in  his  place.     *  You'll  go  to-day.' 

Sanchia  regarded  him  deeply,  almost  curiously, 
as  if  he  had  been  a  plant,  interesting  for  its  rarity. 

*  Naturally,'  she  said,  and  left  him  in  his 
staring  fit. 

The  ordered  little  realm  of  Wanless  went  on  its 
diurnal  course.  Luncheon  was  served  at  two  by  a 
trembling  parlour-maid  ;  the  coffee  was  set  in  the 
hall,  the  cigar-box,  the  spirit-flame.  Frodsham 
came  for  orders,  Mr.  Menzies  reported  Glyde 
absent  without  leave.  These  things  were  done  by 
rote  :  yet  the  whole  house  knew  the  facts.  Sanchia, 
dining  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  plied  her  knife 
and  fork  with  composure.     It  was  her  way  to  face 


ii  APES  AND  TIGERS  167 

facts  once  for  all,  tussle  with  them,  gain  or  lose, 
and  be  done  with  them.  She  had  been  angry  with 
Glyde,  but  now  could  think  of  him  as  '  poor 
Struan,'  Punchinello  in  a  rustic  comedy.  Of 
Ingram,  deliberately,  she  thought  nothing.  It  had 
been  necessary  to  survey  her  feelings  of  eight  years 
ago,  to  make  a  sour  face  of  disgust  over  them, 
before  she  could  shake  them  out  of  her  head. 
Now  they  were  gone,  and  he  with  them  :  the 
world,  with  May  beginning,  was  too  sweet  a  place 
for  such  vermin  to  fester  in.  She  had  swept  and 
ridded  herself,  rinsed  her  mouth  with  pure  water, 
and  now  could  sit  to  her  dinner  and  review 
her  plans. 

But  the  storm  burst  over  Wanless,  at  half- 
past  four.  Minnie  came  into  her  room,  breathless, 
Mrs.  Benson  stertorous  in  her  traces. 

Minnie  wailed,  *  Oh,  Miss,  oh,  Miss  Sanchia, 
oh,  dear  Miss  Percival,  what's  going  to  become  of 
us  ?  Struan's  beaten  the  Master,  and  the  Sergeant's 
here  ! ' 

*  Apes  and  tigers ' — Mrs.  Benson  tolled  like  a 
bell.     ■  Apes  and  tigers.     What  says  the  Book  ?  ' 

Sanchia  let  them  run,  so  the  distorted  tale  was 
pieced  together.  At  a  quarter  to  twelve — it  must 
have  been  that,  because  Emma  heard  the  stable 
clock  chime  the  half-hour — Struan  was  seen  in  his 
blacks.  He  came  out  of  the  wood-house,  an  ash- 
plant  in  his  hand.  *  Apes  and  tigers,  apes  and 
tigers,'  from  Mrs.  Benson — his  face  was  dreadful 
to  see.  Who  said  so  ?  Who  saw  him  ?  Not 
Minnie,  for  sure.  It  was  Bella  the  laundrymaid — 
she  saw  him  from  the  window,  and  had  a  turn. 


1 68  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


The  window  was  open.  '  Why,  Struan,'  she  said 
— but  he  told  her  to  shut  mouth  and  eyes.  '  The 
less  you  see,  or  know/  he  said,  *  the  better  for 
you.*  Poor  Struan,  with  his  tragedy  airs  !  Bella 
told  that  to  Minnie,  and  that  she  would  never 
forget  it  to  her  dying  day.  It  turned  the  beer  in 
her  stomach,  she  said — and  now  she  was  lying 
down.  As  he  went  out  of  the  yard,  a  cloud  came 
over  the  sun,  and  Bella  felt  the  chill.  She  had  the 
goose-flesh  all  up  her  back.  That,  they  say, 
betokens  a  person  walking  over  your  grave. 
Somewhere  in  England  we  all  have  our  grave- 
ground  lying  green  under  turf.  It  awaits  the 
spade  and  the  hour.  In  the  morning  it  is  green 
and  groweth  up — this  was  Mrs.  Benson's  piece, 
but  Minnie  had  the  rest  of  the  stage. 

The  saddle-horse  came  flinging  into  the  yard  at 
one  o'clock — no  later.  That's  certain,  because 
Frodsham  was  at  his  after-dinner  pipe — or  should 
have  been  :  instead  of  which  he  came  running  in 
after  him.  Just  about  that  time,  or  maybe  a  little 
before,  Mr.  Menzies  had  been  asking  for  Struan  ? 
Where  was  he?  Did  any  one  ever  see  such  a 
wastrel  ?  No  man's  account,  he  called  him. 
Mrs.  Benson  tolled  her  apes  and  tigers  all. 

It  was  Minnie  had  seen  the  Master  when  the 
bell  pealed.  She  had  gone  with  her  heart  in  her 
mouth — and  oh,  his  collar  and  tie  !  His  red  ear  ! 
She  had  never  seen  anything  like  his  face,  and 
never  must  again  on  this  side  of  the  tomb. 
Wicked,  oh,  wicked !  He  showed  his  teeth. 
His  face  was  as  white  as  a  clout.  His  voice  was 
like  a  nutmeg-grater.     '  Miss  Percival — here — at 


ii  THE  TALE  TOLD  169 

once/  It  was  all  he  said.  She  did  her  bidding, 
for  servants  must — but  her  heart  bled  for  Miss 
Percival,  and  she  felt  like  fainting  at  any  minute 
when  she  waited  at  luncheon.  He  drank  brandy 
— jerked  his  head  towards  the  sideboard  when  he 
wanted  more.  Never  said  a  word.  And  how  he 
ate,  wrenching  at  his  food  !  Fit  to  choke  him. 
How  she  had  lived  through  luncheon  she  didn't 
know  at  all.  But  that  Struan,  that  quiet  in  an 
ordinary  way,  should  have  dared — with  a  stick  in 
his  violent  hand  !  And  the  Sergeant  ready  for  his 
warrant — stiff  in  the  hall. 

'A  villain  has  got  his  deserts/  boomed  Mrs. 
Benson.  ■  My  dear,  you're  going,  it  seems,  and  I 
with  you.  This  is  no  place  for  a  young  lady — no, 
nor  ever  was,  God  be  good  !  I  know  my  place,  to 
all  parties  ;  but  I  know  that  better — and  now  it's 
come  upon  us  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  Well, 
well,  well — my  pretty  young  lady  !  Old  women 
must  put  up  with  what  they  get,  we  all  know — but 
not  murders  in  gentlemen's  seats  :  no,  nor  beastly 
doings  in  and  out  of  doors.  I  shall  go,  my  dear, 
when  you  go — ah,  me !  When  the  wicked  man 
.  .  .  but  he's  got  his  deserts.  What  !  a  widower — 
with  duty  and  pleasure  before  him,  combined  for 
once,  and  no  thanks  to  him  ! — to  dally  with  a 
French  doll — movable  eyes  and  separate  teeth  and 
all — when  he  might  have  gone  on  his  knees  to  a 
splendid  young  lady  !  And  I'd  have  kept  him 
there  to  say  his  prayers,  which  he's  never  done 
before,  not  since  his  mother  died,  poor  old  gentle- 
woman, worn  out  by  the  gnashings  of  a  tiresome, 
God- Almighty,  wicked  old  man,  and  a  slip  of  sin 


170  REST  HARROW  book 

who  nothing  was  too  good  for.  Not  in  this  world, 
no !  But  it  will  be  made  up  to  him  in  the  next, 
by  the  unquenchable  worm — as  he'll  find  out  when 
he  tries  his  "  down,  dog  "  tricks  ;  his  "  drop  that, 
will  you  ? "  None  of  that  down  there  in  the  fire. 
What  says  the  Book  ?  My  dear,  my  dear,'  and 
she  took  the  girl  in  her  arms  with  a  fine  look 
about  her  of  Niobe  amid  arrows,  *  I've  a  bosom 
for  your  head  and  a  roof  to  shelter  us  both,  and 
we'll  see  what  we  shall  see.  There's  castles  and 
towers  for  the  great  oneyers  and  their  minions  ; 
but  mine  is  in  the  Fulham  Road,  my  dear  ;  my 
own  property  out  of  a  building  society  that  does 
business  for  the  widow  and  the  orphan — makes  it 
their  special  line,  as  I  understand,  and  have  treated 
me  squarely  throughout — that  I  will  say.  Yes, 
yes,  and  I'll  tend  you  fairly,  will  Sarah  Benson, 
widowed  mother  of  a  graceless  son,  who  can  feel 
for  her  poor  dead  mistress,  mother  of  a  worse. 
My  lamb,  you  shall  want  for  nothing.' 

Fast  in  a  good  pair  of  arms,  Sanchia  snuggled 
and  smiled.  She  patted  Mrs.  Benson's  cheek,  and 
put  up  her  lips  to  her.  Minnie,  like  a  thawing 
ice-pack,  ran  rivers  of  water. 

4  You  are  good  to  me,'  she  said  ;  '  you  are 
sweet  to  me.  I  don't  mind  anything  when  I  can 
be  sure  of  such  friends.  But  you  musn't  leave, 
you  know.  Really,  you  ought  not.  I  shan't  for- 
get you,  be  sure  of  that,  whether  you  stay  or  go.' 

Mrs.  Benson  crooned  over  her,  'Oh,  you're 
not  one  that  forgets,  my  precious,  with  your  golden 
heart.  And  there's  more  than  me  will  find  it  out.' 
She  wiped  her  spectacles,  breathing  on  the  glasses, 


„  MRS.  BENSON  AT  LARGE         171 

and  Sanchia  shook  out  her  plumage,  escaped  from 
the  nest.  Ingram,  without  knocking,  came  into 
the  room. 

His  rage  was  now  cold  and  keen.  He  took  in 
conspiracy  with  one  glance  at  the  three. 

He  spoke  to  Minnie.  'I  have  been  ringing 
for  twenty  minutes.  The  brandy  in  my  room, 
and  some  soda-water.  At  once.'  Scared  Minnie 
fled.  Then  he  turned  half  to  Sanchia,  but  didn't 
look  at  her. 

*  I  understood  you  were  leaving  this  afternoon. 
You  had  better  order  a  fly.  There's  the  telephone.' 
He  held  out  an  envelope.  *  I  think  that  you  will 
find  this  correct.' 

Sanchia  was  at  her  bureau.  '  Put  it  on  the 
table,  please,'  she  said,  without  turning  ;  and  while 
Ingram  hovered,  Mrs.  Benson,  heaving  like  the 
sea,  gathered  into  a  combing  wave  and,  breaking, 
swallowed  him  up. 

*  Money — ah  !  You  come  with  money  to  a 
lady  of  the  land  !  Offer  me  money,  Mr.  Ingram, 
if  you  dare.  Your  bread  I've  eaten,  having  baked 
it,  and  your  father's  bread,  and  not  choked  yet, 
though  each  mouthful  might  be  my  last.  By 
every  word  out  of  the  mouth  of  God,  says  the 
Book ;  and  what  shall  He  say  of  you  ?  I've  watched 
for  this,  I've  seen  it  coming.  You  keep  long 
accounts,  but  there's  One  keeps  longer — and  in  His 
head,  as  we  read.  To  breaking  mother's  heart  so 
much,  to  scandal  of  matrimony  so  much — and  to 
perjury  and  dirty  devices,  wicked  dalliance,  so 
much.  When  she  came  here — this  fine  young 
lady,  so  fresh  and  sweet — I  waited.     I  shook  my 


1 72  REST  HARROW  book 

fist  at  you,  Mr.  Ingram  ;  "  I  know  what  this 
means/'  I  said,  "  a  false  tongue  and  a  young  heart." 
And  I  waited,  I  tell  you — for  I  could  do  nothing 
else.  She  could  have  come  to  me  at  any  hour  of 
any  day  and  welcome  ;  and  I'd  have  told  her, 
M  He's  bad — he's  rotten  at  the  heart.  He'll  tire  of 
you — neglect  you — trick  you — and  cast  you  out." 
But  she  was  too  proud  for  that ;  she  bore  it  all, 
and  not  a  word.  And  she  did  your  work  as  never 
before,  not  in  your  time,  nor  your  father's  time  ; 
and  made  friends  of  the  poor,  and  kept  her  place 
— sweetly  and  smoothly  it  was  done.  And  you 
on  your  travels  with  foreign  women — ' 

Ingram  now  emerged  from  the  flood.  'Are 
you  mad  ? '  he  said.  A  dreadful  calm  came  over 
Mrs.  Benson,  succeeding  the  tempest. 

c  **  I  am  not  mad,  most  noble  Festus," '  she 
said  ;  '  but  I  am  mother  of  a  graceless  son,  and 
will  not  be  cook  to  another.  I  leave  your  service 
from  this  hour.  Your  dinner  is  a-making,  and 
Emma  is  a  steady  worker.'  She  turned  to  Sanchia. 
'  The  best  vegetable-hand  I  ever  had  under  me, 
Miss  Percival,  and  I've  had  a  score.'  One  further 
cut  at  Ingram  she  allowed  herself.  ■  I  would  not 
take  a  penny  piece  of  your  money  now,  not  to 
save  my  darling  from  the  lions.' 

1  You  won't  get  it,  you  know,'  said  Ingram. 
'  But  you've  had  lots  of  'em.'  She  braved  that 
truth. 

'  And  earned  them,  Mr.  Ingram,  as  you  know, 
better  than  I  do.' 

Ingram,  ignoring  her,  observed  quietly  to 
Sanchia,  '  The  sooner  the  better,  I  think.' 


ii  GOOD-BYES  173 

That  was  the  manner  of  his  farewell. 

It  was  not  the  way  she  would  have  chosen 
to  leave  ;  but  she  reasoned  with  herself,  as  she 
packed  her  belongings,  that  it  was  probably  the 
best  way.  It  gave  no  time  and  little  inclination 
for  sentiment.  Now,  it  is  almost  certain  that  had 
a  term  been  ahead  of  her,  whose  end  could  be 
felt  nearing,  there  would  have  been  good-byes,, 
last  interviews,  and  last  interviews  but  one,  which 
are  apt  to  be  more  poignant  than  those  of  the 
last  moment  of  all.  Even  as  it  was  there  were 
threatenings  of  emotion.  Wanless  was  stirred 
deeply.  Mr.  Menzies  brought  in  a  nosegay,  and 
grasped  her  hand.  *You  will  be  sorely  missed 
here,  Miss  Percival,  sorely  missed.  Less  said's 
the  sooner  mended,  but  you're  a  true  young  lady, 
greatly  to  be  deplored/ 

*  Good-bye,  Mr.  Menzies,'  she  had  said,  *  and 
thank  you  a  thousand  times  for — ' 

1  They  are  from  my  own  plot  of  ground/  said 
the  grizzled  gardener,  and  looked  away.  She 
had  his  tulips  in  her  hand,  and  now  buried  her 
face  in  them. 

'Then  I  love  them  all  the  better/  she  told 
him  ;  and  put  in  a  word  for  Struan.  *  Be  kind 
to  him  when  you  see  him  again — please  do/ 

Mr.  Menzies  became  far-sighted.  He  had 
very  blue  eyes.  ■  Ahem  ! '  he  said,  in  his  Scotch 
fashion.  *  He'll  not  be  here  again,  I  doubt. 
He'll  be  away,  the  headstrong  young  man.'  But 
he  warmed  to  it.  ■  Ay,'  he  said,  '  ay,  Miss 
Percival.     For  your  sake   I'll   listen  to  what   h& 


174  REST  HARROW  book 

has  to  tell  me.'  She  felt  that  she  must  be  content 
with  that.  Each  servant  in  degree  must  be  dealt 
with,  and  Minnie  comforted  in  her  place.  She 
was  all  for  going  that  night ;  but  had  a  mother 
and  four  sisters  in  Doncaster — all  at  home. 
Would  Miss  Sanchia  forgive  her,  and  accept  of 
this  Prayer-book  ?  Miss  Sanchia  would  ;  kissed 
her,  and  did. 

In  the  carriage  drive  she  told  Mrs.  Benson  of 
her  immediate  intention.  *  I  must  say  good-bye 
to  Struan.  We  will  stop  at  his  cottage  on  the 
way.     There's  plenty  of  time.' 

Mrs.  Benson  was  strongly  against  it,  but  rather 
showed  her  mind  than  declared  it.  Mischief 
enough  had  been  done  through  that  youth — and 
in  him,  she  doubted.  Better  let  him  alone.  Are 
you  to  countenance  violent  hands  ?  Raised  against 
them  in  authority  ?  Then  where's  authority  ? 
Where  are  Principalities  and  Powers  ?  Much  as 
she  contemned  Ingram,  she  was  on  his  side  against 
Struan  any  day.  On  the  other  hand,  Sanchia  was, 
in  a  manner,  her  guest,  and  could  not  be  spoken 
to  plainly  about  it.  She  could  only  shake  her 
head. 

1  He's  better  alone,  Miss  Percival,  alone  with 
his  devil.  While  the  fit's  on  him,  let  'em  fight  it 
out.     And  what  can  he  be — to  the  likes  of  you  ? ' 

*  He's  always  been  a  friend  of  mine,'  she  said. 
'  He's  been  very  foolish,  very  wicked  ;  he  had  no 
business  whatever  to  do  as  he  did — to  put  me  in 
the  wrong.  I'm  angry  with  him,  and  he  will  see 
that  I  am.     But — '     Mrs.  Benson  knew  the  force 


h  SHE  KEEPS  A  HOLD  175 

of  that  'but.'  It  had  brought  the  young  lady  to 
Wanless. 

Yet  Mrs.  Benson  might  have  triumphed  if  she 
would.  Sanchia,  at  the  cottage  door,  was  met  by 
the  anxious  tenant  of  it  with  whom  Struan  lodged. 
*  He's  not  here,  Miss,'  she  was  told,  and  then, 
1  Oh,  Miss,  they've  took  him  away.  The  Sergeant's 
come  for  him  and  took  him.  And  we  hear — ' 
There  had  been  no  stopping  her,  but  by  Sanchia's 
way. 

She  walked  into  the  cottage  and  put  up  her 
veil.  She  showed  a  pale,  sad  face.  ■  How  dread- 
ful !  I  must  write  a  note.  Will  you  let  me  write 
here,  and  leave  it  with  you — to  give  him  when  he 
comes  ? ' 

She  wrote  in  pencil,  *  My  dear  Struan,  I  am 
very  sorry.  You  made  me  angry,  but  I'm  sorry 
now.  I  came  to  say  Good-bye,  as  I  am  going 
away.  Mrs.  Benson  is  with  me.  See  Mr. 
Menzies  when  you  can.  He  has  promised  to 
help  you,  and,  of  course,  I  will  too,  if  I  can. — 
Yours  always,  S.  J.  P.'  With  the  fold  of  the 
envelope  to  her  tongue  she  paused,  reflective. 
Then  she  took  the  note  out  again,  read  it  over, 
and  ran  her  pencil  through  the  last  two  letters  of 
her  signature.  And  taking  two  Parma  violets 
from  the  knot  at  her  breast — a  recent  gift  from 
Wanless — she  put  them  within  the  paper.  Thus 
she  did  deliberately — as  the  Fates  would  have  her. 
Addressing  *  Mr.  S.  Glyde,  by  Mrs.  Broughton,' 
she  gave  her  letter  in  charge.  *  Be  sure  to  give 
it  him  when  he  comes  back,'  she  said.  Then  she 
and  her  protector  were  driven  to  the  station. 


XII 

As  Chevenix,  once  his  friend,  had  said  often, 
Nevile,  when  his  back  was  up,  shrank  from 
nothing.  Even  while  the  Hall  was  in  tempest, 
the  Sergeant  had  visited  Glyde  as  he  sat  at  his  tea. 
They  .nodded  to  each  other,  while  the  officer  stood 
powerfully  in  the  doorway. 

Glyde's  strong  teeth  bit  through  a  crust.  '  I 
know  your  errand,'  he  said. 

Sergeant  Weeks  replied,  '  I  can't  doubt  it.' 
Impassivity  became  him  ;  he  figured  the  Law  as 
the  everlasting  hills. 

Glyde  too,  in  his  way,  was  impressive. 
Between  long  draughts  from  his  tea-cup,  he 
asked,  '  Where's  your  warrant  ? ' 

The  Sergeant  produced  his  folded  paper,  opened 
and  scanned  it,  to  see  that  all  was  in  order,  before 
he  passed  it  into  the  room.  '  Here  'tis  for  you, 
made  out  by  Sir  Trevor  Gell.  Why,  man  '  he 
broke  out,  humanely  indignant,  '  what  in  thunder 
were  you  about?'  A  flaxen-haired  child,  nursing 
a  doll,  edged  herself  through  a  door  ajar,  and 
gazed  blue-eyed  upon  the  pair.     Glyde  saw  her. 

*  That's  my  business,'  he  said.  '  Run  away, 
Flo.       I'll  tell,  or  I'll  not  tell,  in  my  time  and 

176 


GLYDE  TO  PAY  177 

place — which  aren't  here,  saving  your  presence/ 
He  got  up  and  put  his  hand  on  the  child's  poll. 
'Well,  I'm  your  man,'  he  added. 

The  Sergeant  blinked.  ■  Nay,  nay,  you  can 
finish  your  tea.  I'll  just  step  in  and  smoke  my 
pipe  with  you.  'Tisn't  often  I  get  the  chance,  in 
the  daylight.' 

1  Right,'  said  Glyde,  and  poured  off  the  rest  of 
his  brew.     Flo's  finger  went  into  her  mouth. 

The  Sergeant  lit,  the  Sergeant  puffed.  A 
remark  seemed  proper.  ■  Seemingly,'  he  said, 
'  there's  a  storm  about.  'Tis  like  to  be  the  end  of 
our  spell  of  fair.' 

Glyde  laughed  ;  but  there  had  been  no  side- 
thrust.  A  police  officer  is  not  gnomic.  Safety, 
for  him,  lies  in  smooth  running.  Thus,  every 
man  is  a  potential  criminal ;  but  every  criminal, 
once  taken,  is  a  fellow-man.  Nobody  could  have 
been  more  tactful  than  he  while  Glyde  made  his 
preparations  to  depart.  Mrs.  Broughton  was  in 
tears,  Flo  sobbed  in  her  mother's  apron  ;  but 
Glyde  spoke  plain  words  of  comfort. 

'  Don't  take  on,  Mrs.  Broughton  ;  this  is  a 
small  matter  to  what's  been  done.  You'll  see  to 
my  things,  I  know.  The  papers  here  may  be 
valuable — who  knows  ?  A  deal  of  candle  has 
gone  up  in  smoke  over  them — rivers  of  ink  !  I'll 
ask  them  of  you  when  I  come  back.'  He  took 
with  him  his  Virgil  and  Sanchia's  Dante — nothing 
else.  At  the  lodge  gates  he  mounted  the  cart,  the 
Sergeant  after  him,  and  by  six  of  the  evening  was 
lodged  in  Felsboro'  gaol.  There  he  lay  for  a  week, 
awaiting  Petty  Sessions. 

N 


178  REST  HARROW  book 

There  was  a  full  bench,  a  crowded  court  when 
the  accused  was  brought  in.  The  hush  that 
preceded  him  and  the  buzz  when  he  stood  up 
made  Ingram  set  his  teeth.  The  reporters,  with 
racing  pen,  cleared  the  ground.  Thus  the  world 
might  read  of  *  The  Squire  of  Wanless,  every  inch 
a  soldier,'  in  one  journal,  and  of  '  Nevile  Ingram, 
Esquire,  of  Wanless  Hall,'  in  another.  There 
are  no  politics  in  police  reports,  but  broadcloth 
is  respectable.  The  prisoner  was  described  as 
'Struan  Glyde,  23,  a  sickly-looking  young  man, 
who  exhibited  symptoms  of  nervousness.'  It  was 
allowed  that  he  spoke  *  firmly  but  respectfully  to 
the  Bench/  but,  on  the  other  hand,  c  to  the  com- 
plainant he  showed  considerable  animosity,  and 
more  than  once  had  to  be  reproved  by  the  Chair- 
man.' The  proceedings  were  short.  *  At  the 
close  there  was  a  demonstration,  which  was 
immediately  checked  by  the  police.' 

Glyde,  in  fact,  was  revealed  as  a  narrow-faced 
young  man,  slim  and  olive-complexioned,  hav- 
ing light,  intent  eyes,  and  very  long  eyelashes. 
Nervous  he  undoubtedly  was  ;  he  twitched,  he 
blinked,  he  swallowed.  He  looked  effeminate  to 
one  judge.  Another  said  of  him  to  his  neighbour, 
'As  hardy  as  a  hawk.'  A  newspaper  called  him 
i  puny,'  a  rival  ■  as  tough  as  whip-cord.'  It 
depended  upon  your  reading  of  him — whether  by 
externals  or  not.  He  had  a  quiet,  fierce  way  with 
him,  a  glare,  the  look  of  a  bird  of  prey.  He  was 
very  self-possessed.     All  the  papers  observed  it. 

Ingram,  playing  his  privilege  to  the  last  ounce, 
told  his  tale   to   his  brother-magistrates,  shortly, 


THE  BENCH  CONSULTS  179 

but  with  considerable  effect.  He  had  had  occasion 
to  dismiss  a  servant,  and  the  prisoner  had  taken 
upon  himself  to  resent  it.  Yes — in  answer  to  a 
question — a  female  servant.  Prisoner  had  attacked 
him  in  his  own  carriage-drive,  had  pulled  him  out 
of  the  saddle  before  he  knew  what  he  was  about, 
and  had  beaten  him  while  on  the  ground.  He 
had  no  witnesses.  There  had  been  none.  His 
voice,  as  he  chopped  out  his  phrases,  was  dry, 
his  tone  impartial.  He  took  no  sides,  stated  the 
facts.  He  spoke  to  the  Chairman — even  when 
he  replied  to  the  question  which  made  him,  for  a 
moment,  take  breath  ;  and  he  never  once  looked 
at  the  accused. 

The  Bench  consulted  together.  Old  Mr. 
Bazalguet,  the  Chairman,  leaned  far  back  in  his 
chair  and  gazed  at  the  ceiling,  while  two  younger 
justices  whispered  to  each  other  across  his  portly 
person,  peering  sideways  at  Ingram,  who  snowed 
them  his  smooth  head  and  folded  arms.  Colonel 
Vero,  the  fourth  of  the  tribunal,  was  drawing 
angels  on  his  blotting  paper.  Then  they  settled 
themselves,  one  of  them  with  a  shrug,  and  Sergeant 
Weeks  told  of  the  arrest.  Accused  had  declined 
to  make  a  statement,  but  had  spoken  certain 
words  to  his  landlady,  one  Mrs.  Broughton,  to 
the  effect  that  what  was  to  come  was  *  nothing '  to 
what  had  been  done.  He  had  left  in  her  charge 
papers,  which  the  Sergeant  had  afterwards  ex- 
amined, and  now  had  in  his  care.  This  had  led  to 
a  brief  interlude. 

Mr.  Bazalguet  had  caught  the  word.     '  Papers  ? 
What  papers  ?'  he  asked.     '  Newspapers?' 


180  REST  HARROW  book 

*  No,  sir,'  said  Sergeant  Weeks.  i  They  were 
writings.  Poetry  and  the  like  —  and  foreign 
tongues.'  The  Bench  sat  up,  and  now  Glyde  had 
the  hawk-look  in  his  light  eyes.  Ingram  stifled  a 
yawn,  and  impressed  the  Bench. 

Mr.  Bazalguet,  inclining  his  head  to  either 
side,  inquired  only  with  his  eyebrows.  Did  we 
want  these  papers  ?  Should  we,  perhaps,  for 
form's  sake,  examine  them?  Mr.  Max  Fortnaby 
was  of  opinion  that  we  should.  As  they  were 
handed  up,  the  prisoner,  who  had  been  wetting 
his  lips,  said  plainly,  '  There's  nothing  in  them 
about  this  business,'  and  was  reproved  by  Sergeant 
Weeks. 

A  formidable  pile  of  MS.  was  passed  up  by  the 
Clerk,  whose  deprecating  glances  were  not  lost 
upon  the  Chairman.  But  Mr.  Max  Fortnaby  cut 
open  the  budget  in  the  midst,  and  peered  in. 

'  Janua  vel  domina  penitus  crudelior  ipsa ' — he 
read.  It  was  a  footnote.  He  lifted  his  eyebrows 
— then  his  eyes  upon  the  accused. 

1  Propertius  ?     You  know  Latin  ? ' 

*  I  know  some,  sir.' 

He  returned  to  the  MS.,  then  again  to  Glyde. 

*  You  are  a  bit  of  a  poet,  I  see.' 
c  Yes,  sir.     I  hope  so.' 

1  If  it  leads  you  to  battery,  my  young  friend — ' 
was  his  private  comment.  To  Mr.  Bazalguet  he 
whispered,  *  The  fellow's  got  scholarship.  We 
might  give  these  back,  I  think.'  Mr.  Bazalguet 
was  only  too  happy,  and  Glyde  saw  his  offspring 
returned.  Sergeant  Weeks,  safe  in  Mr.  Fortnaby's 
good  opinion,  scrupulously  wrapped  and  tied  them. 


ir  GLYDE  TO  INGRAM  181 

Mr.  Fortnaby  said,  4  Let  them  go  back  to  his 
landlady,'  and  caught  the  prisoner's  eye. 

It  was  now  time  to  ask  him  whether  he  had 
anything  to  say.  Glyde,  perfectly  master  of  him- 
self, said  that  he  pleaded  Guilty,  but  would  like  to 
put  a  few  questions.  The  Chairman,  biting  the 
tips  of  his  fingers,  nodded  ;  and  Mr.  Fortnaby 
watched  him. 

Facing  Ingram,  who  looked  always  to  the 
Chairman,  Glyde  asked — ■  Did  you  dismiss  your 
servant,  as  you  put  it,  before  I  met  you,  or  after- 
wards ? '     All  eyes  flew  from  Glyde  to  Ingram. 

4  Actually,  afterwards/  it  was  explained.  '  But 
the  thing  was  understood  before.' 

*  By  whom  ? ' 

4  By  me,'  said  Ingram,  '  and — '  He  stopped 
there.  A  very  interesting  struggle,  momentary, 
and  done  in  silence,  took  place.  Glyde  was  daring 
Ingram  to  bring  in  Sanchia's  name,  and  Ingram 
could  not  do  it. 

1  And —  ? '  said  Glyde.     ■  And  by  whom  ? ' 

Ingram  paused,  biting  his  lips.  He  was  pale. 
He  took  a  long  breath,  and  then  said,  'And  by 
you,  I  have  no  doubt.' 

4  Thank  you,'  Glyde  said.  Then  he  began 
again.     *  Did  you  ask  me  to  fight  with  you  ?  ' 

4 1  believe  I  did.' 

'And  I  refused?' 

4  Yes,'  said  Ingram,  *  you  did.' 

*  Did  I  say  that  I  didn't  fight  with  dogs  ? ' 
Ingram  smiled  at  the  Chairman.     4  You  did  not/ 
4 1  say  so  now,'   said  Glyde,  and  stirred  the 

Court.     Mr.  Bazalguet  interfered.     4  You  mustn't 


1 82  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


talk  like  that,  Glyde.  We  can't  have  it,  you 
know.'  Colonel  Vero  added,  *  Certainly  not/  and 
stretched  his  long  legs  out. 

Glyde  recovered  himself,  and  begged  pardon. 
He  was  told  that  he  might  go  on,  in  reason,  but 
declined.  '  Thank  you,  sir.  I  think  I'll  leave  it 
so.     I  own  to  what  I  did.' 

He  was  told  that  he  could  be  dealt  with 
summarily,  or  sent  for  trial.  '  I'll  take  it  from 
you,  gentlemen,'  he  said,  and  settled  himself  re- 
posefully.  The  Bench  drew  together,  with  the 
Clerk  intervening. 

Mr.  Bazalguet,  double- chinned  and  comfortable 
squire,  was  disturbed  by  this  case.  What  troubled 
him  was  that  Ingram  had  not  been  straightforward. 
What  was  this  dismissal  of  a  servant  ?  He  knew, 
and  therefore  he  asked  the  question.  Fortnaby 
knew  also,  but  didn't  intend  to  say.  Everybody, 
indeed,  knew.  Romance  appeals  to  us  all  in  diverse 
ways  ;  and  it  was  actually  romance  which  settled 
Glyde's  romantic  affair. 

Fortnaby,  Maximilian  Fortnaby,  had  been  a 
schoolmaster,  had  succeeded  to  an  estate  at  forty, 
and  retired.  He,  with  his  keen  face  and  trim 
whiskers,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  thus  spoke 
in  undertones,  and  carried  the  day.  *  The  case  is 
clear.  The  young  man's  taught  himself  tongues, 
and  has  poetry.  He's  been  taught  other  things, 
too,  and  has  got  some  of  them  wrongly.  One 
thing  he  ought  to  learn  is  that  to  relieve  your  feel- 
ings is  not  the  way  to  help  the  oppressed.  He's 
set  himself  up  for  a  champion,  and  tongues  have 
got  to  work.     I  should  give  him  three  months.' 


THEY  GO  THEIR  WAYS  183 

Mr.  Bazalguet  looked  at  the  Clerk,  who  said  it 
was  a  bad  case.  Mr.  Ingram  was  a  magistrate 
and — the  maximum  was  two  years.  The  third 
magistrate  saw  his  way  to  impressing  himself, — 

*  Make  it  six  months,'  he  said.  The  Chairman 
agreed  with  him,  until  Colonel  Vero  said,  '  I 
should   give    him    a  year.'      That  shocked   him. 

*  It'll  take  a  long  time  for  it  to  blow  over,  you 
know/  he  whispered  to  Fortnaby,  who  smiled  and 
shrugged.  ■ 1  don't  suppose  six  will  hurt  him. 
He'll  be  able  to  write  after  a  bit.'  *  Ingram  will  go 
abroad,  you  know,'  said  Mr.  Bazalguet.  ■  Did 
you  happen  to  know  the — party  ? '  Fortnaby 
looked  up  quickly.  *  I  ?  Oh,  dear  no.  But  I 
gather  that  the  less  we  say  the  better.  It  was  not 
an  ordinary  servant.'  Mr.  Weir,  the  third  magis- 
trate, said,  *  A  lady,  I  hear '  ;  but  his  colleagues 
ignored  him.  Then  they  all  sat  up,  and  the  Clerk 
sank  into  the  well. 

*  Glyde,'  said  Mr.  Bazalguet,  *  you  will  have  to 
go  to  prison  for  three  months,  with  hard  labour. 
I  hope  this  will  be  a  warning  to  you.     I  do  indeed.' 

The  prisoner  was  removed  amid  murmurs. 
There  was  some  cheering  outside  the  court — at 
which  Ingram  grimly  smiled.  But  he  was  very 
pale,  and  did  not  leave  the  Sessions  house  until 
late  in  the  afternoon.  Old  Mr.  Bazalguet  was 
very  cool  with  him  after  the  court.  He  grunted 
when  they  met  in  the  hall.  *  You  go  abroad  ? '  he 
asked  him.     Ingram  said,  it  was  probable. 


BOOK  III 

INTERLUDE   OF   THE   RECLUSE 
PHILOSOPHER 


18$ 


I 

A  notable  difference  between  the  sexes  is  this  : 
that  a  man  will  thrive  for  years — that  is,  his  better 
part — upon  love  denied,  and  woman  upon  love 
fulfilled.  So  Senhouse,  in  his  hopeless  plight, 
starved  and  did  well ;  dreams  nourished  him 
in  what  passes  in  England  for  solitude.  From 
the  grey  of  the  mornings  to  the  violet-lidded 
dusk  his  silence  was  rarely  broken ;  and  yet  the 
music  in  his  heart  was  continuous  ;  his  routine 
marched  to  a  rhythm.  The  real  presence  of 
Sanchia  was  always  with  him,  to  intensify,  ac- 
centuate, and  make  reasonable  the  perceptions  of 
his  quickened  senses.  Sense  blended  with  sense — 
as  when  the  sharp  fragrance  of  the  thyme  which 
his  feet  crushed  gave  him  the  vision  of  her  im- 
mortal beauty,  or  when,  in  the  rustle  of  the  wind- 
swept grasses,  he  had  a  consciousness  of  her  thrilled 
heart  beating  near  by.  All  nature,  in  fact,  was 
vocal  of  Sanchia  by  day  ;  and  at  night,  presently, 
she  stole  white-footed  down  the  slant  rays  of  the 
moon  and  fed  his  soul  upon  exhalations  of  her 
own.  Idle  as  he  might  have  appeared  to  one  who 
did  not  know  the  man — for  beyond  the  routine 
of  his  handiwork  he  did  nothing  visible — he  was 
really  intensely  busy.     Out  of  the  stores  reaped 

187 


1 88  REST  HARROW  book 

and  garnered  in  those  meditative  years  was  to  come 
the  substance  of  his  after-life. 

But  no  man  in  England  may  live  three  years  in 
a  grass  valley  unreported  ;  his  fame  will  spread 
abroad,  scattered  as  birds  sow  seeds.  Discreetly 
as  he  lived  and  little  as  he  fared,  he  was  at  first  a 
thing  of  doubt  and  suspicion,  and  won  respect  by 
slow  degrees.  Was  he  a  coiner,  stirring  alloys 
over  his  night  fires  ?  Was  he  Antichrist,  blas- 
pheming the  Trinity  at  daybreak?  He  was 
talked  of  by  gaitered  farmers  at  sheep-fairs,  by 
teamsters  at  cross-roads,  by  maidens  and  their 
sweethearts  on  Sundays.  The  shepherds,  it  was 
thought,  might  have  told  more  than  they  did.  It 
was  understood  that  they  had  caught  him  at  his 
secrets  times  and  again.  But  the  shepherds  had 
little  to  say  of  him  but  that  he  was  a  mellow  man, 
knowing  sheep  and  weather,  and  not  imparting  all 
that  he  knew.  Similarly  the  gypsies,  who  alone 
travel  the  Race-plain  in  these  days,  and  mostly  by 
night,  were  believed  to  know  him  well ;  but  they, 
too,  kept  their  lore  within  the  limits  of  their  own 
shifty  realm. 

Rarely,  indeed,  he  was  seen.  Sunday  lovers, 
strolling  hand  in  hand  up  the  valley,  came  to  a 
point  where  they  went  tiptoe  and  peered  about  for 
him.  He  might  be  descried  motionless,  folded  in 
his  white  robe,  midway  between  ridge  and  hollow  ; 
or  a  gleam  of  him  flashed  between  the  trees  of  the 
brake  would  perhaps  be  all  that  they  would  get  for 
an  hour  of  watching.  The  hill  brows  would,  on 
such  days,  be  lined  with  patient  onlookers  ;  all  eyes 
would  be  up  the  narrow  valley  to  its  head  under 


in  LEGENDS  A-MAKING  189 

Hirlebury,  where,  below  the  little  wood,  his  grey 
hut  could  be  seen,  deep-eaved,  mysterious,  blankly 
holding  its  secrets  behind  empty  windows.  None 
ever  ventured  to  explore  at  close  quarters  ;  and  if 
the  tenant  had  appeared,  a  thousand  to  one  they 
would  all  have  looked  the  other  way.  The  Wilt- 
shire peasant  is  a  gentleman  from  the  heart  out- 
wards. So,  too,  carters,  ploughmen,  reapers  in  the 
vales  would  sometimes  see  his  gaunt  figure  mon- 
strous on  the  sky-line,  cowled  and  with  uplifted 
arms,  adoring  (it  was  supposed)  the  sun,  or  lean- 
ing on  his  staff,  motionless  and  rapt,  meditating 
death  and  mutability.  He  lost  nothing  by  such 
chance  apparitions  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  gained 
the  name  of  a  wise  man  who  had  powers  of  divina- 
tion and  healing.  In  the  cottage  whither  he  went 
once  a  week  for  bread,  a  child  had  been  sick  of  a 
burning  fever.  His  hands,  averred  the  mother, 
had  cured  it.  Groping  and  making  passes  over 
its  stomach,  rubbing  in  oils,  relief  had  come,  then 
quiet  sleep  and  a  cool  forehead.  After  this,  an  old 
man,  crippled  with  rheumatics,  had  hobbled  up  to 
the  very  edge  of  his  dominion,  and  had  waited 
shaking  there  upon  his  staff  until  he  could  get 
speech  with  the  white  stranger.  He,  too,  had  had 
the  reward  of  his  belief.  If  he  was  not  made 
sound  again,  he  was  relieved  and  heartened.  He 
had  said  that,  if  he  was  spared,  he  was  hopeful  to 
stretch  to  his  height  again,  which  had  been  six  feet 
all  but  an  inch.  The  stranger,  said  he,  had  put 
him  in  the  way  of  new  life,  and  whatever  he  might 
mean — whether  that  he  were  a  Salvationist  or  a 
quack  doctor — he  would  say  no  more.     After  that, 


i9o  REST  HARROW  book 

a  young  woman  went  to  him  to  get  him  to  name 
the  father  of  her  child,  and  returned,  and  was 
modest  for  a  month,  and  a  good  mother  when  the 
time  came.  And  true  it  was  that  her  chap  came 
forward  and  saw  the  vicar  about  it,  and  that  they 
were  asked  in  church.  Out  of  such  things  as 
these  his  fame  grew. 

The  hunt  struck  upon  him  now  and  again, 
when  the  hounds  in  full  cry  streamed  down  his 
steep  escarpments  and  threatened  panic  to  his 
browsing  goats.  At  such  times  he  would  rise 
up,  white-robed  and  calm,  and  stay  with  a  quiet 
gesture  the  scattering  beasts.  The  whips  would 
cap  him,  and  the  Master  with  his  field  find  them- 
selves in  company  of  an  equal.  For  his  ease  of 
manner  never  left  him,  nor  that  persuasive  smile 
which  made  you  think  that  the  sun  was  come  out. 
He  had  none  of  the  airs  of  a  mystagogue,  but 
talked  to  men,  as  he  did  to  beasts,  in  the  speech 
which  was  habitual  to  them.  The  lagging  fox 
understood  him  when,  grinning  his  fear  and 
fatigue,  he  drew  himself  painfully  through  the 
furze.  So  did  the  hounds,  athirst  for  his  blood. 
Buck -skinned  gentlemen,  no  less,  found  him 
affable  and  full  of  information — about  anything 
and  everything  in  the  world  except  the  line  of  the 
hunted  fox.  '  Oh,  come,'  he  said  once,  ■  don't 
ask  me  to  give  him  away.  You're  fifty  to  one,  to 
start  with  ;  and  the  fact  is  I  passed  him  my  word 
that  I  wouldn't.  I'll  tell  you  what,  though.  You 
shall  offer  me  a  cigarette.  I  haven't  smoked  for 
six  days.'     Which  was  done. 

His  powers  with  children,  his  charm  for  them, 


in  WONDERS  IN  THE  DOWNS       191 

his  influence  and  fascination,  which  in  course  of 
time  made  him  famous  beyond  these  shores,  arose 
out  of  a  chance  encounter  not  far  from  his  hut. 
Three  boys,  breaking  school  in  the  nesting  season, 
came  suddenly  upon  him,  and  paled,  and  stood 
rooted.  *  Come  on,'  he  said,  '  I'll  show  you  a 
thing  or  two  that  you've  never  seen  before.'  He 
led  them  to  places  of  marvel,  which  his  speech 
made  to  glimmer  with  the  hues  of  romance  :  the 
fresh  grubbed  earth  where  a  badger  had  been 
routing,  the  quiet  glade  where,  that  morning,  a 
polecat  had  washed  her  face.  He  brought  them 
up  to  a  vixen  and  her  cubs,  and  got  them  aJl 
playing  together.  He  let  them  hold  leverets  in 
their  arms,  milk  his  goats,  as  the  kids  milk  them 
for  their  need  ;  and  showed  them  so  much  of  the 
ways  of  birds  that  they  forgot,  while  they  were 
under  the  spell  of  him,  to  take  any  of  their  eggs. 
Crowning  wonder  of  all — when  a  peewit,  waiting 
on  the  down,  dipped  and  circled  about  his  head 
for  a  while  and  finally  perched  on  his  shoulder 
while  he  stood  looking  down  upon  her  eggs  in 
the  bents'!  Such  deeds  as  these  fly  broadcast  over 
the  villages,  and  on  Saturdays  he  would  be  attended 
by  a  score  of  urchins,  boys  and  girls.  To  a  game- 
keeper who  came  out  after  his  lad,  sapling  ash  in 
hand,  he  had  that  to  say  which  convinced  the  man 
of  his  authority. 

*  'A  says  to  me,  "  There's  a  covey  of  ten  in 
thicky  holler,"  where  you  could  see  neither  land 
nor  bird.  "  I  allow  'tis  ten,"  he  says,  "  but  we 
won't  be  particular  to  a  chick."  There  was  nine, 
if  you  credit  me,  that  rose  out  of  a  kind  of  a  dimple 


192  REST  HARROW  book 

in  the  down,  that  you  couldn't  see,  and  no  man 
could  see.  "  Lord  love  you,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  John, 
how  ever  did  you  see  'em  ? "  He  looks  at  me, 
and  he  says,  very  quiet,  "  I  never  saw  the  birds, 
nor  knew  they  was  there.  I  saw  the  air.  There's 
waves  in  this  air,"  he  says,  "  wrinkled  waves  ;  and 
they  birds  stirred  'em,  like  stones  flung  into  a 
pond.  Tom,"  he  says  to  my  Tom,  "if  you  look 
as  close  as  I  do,"  he  says,  "  you'll  see  what  I  see." 
And  young  Tom  looks  up  at  him,  as  a  dog  might, 
kind  of  faithful,  and  he  says,  "  I  'low  I  will,  sir, 
please,  sir."  I  says  to  him,  "  Can  a  man  be  taught 
the  like  o'  that  ? "  "  No,"  says  he,  "  but  a  boy 
can."  "  What  more  could  thicky  boy  learn  ?  "  I 
says  ;  and  he  says,  "  To  understand  his  betters,  and 
get  great  words,  and  do  without  a  sight  of  things 
— for  the  more  you  do  without,"  he  says,  "  the 
more  you  have  to  deal  with."  "Such  things  as 
what,  now,  would  he  do  without  ? "  I  wants  to 
know.  He  looks  at  me.  "  Food,"  he  says, 
kind  of  sharp  ;  "  food  when  he's  hungry,  and 
clothing,  and  a  bed  ;  and  money,  and  the  respect 
of  them  that  don't  know  anything,  and  other 
men's  learning,  and  things  he  don't  make  for  him- 
self." Heard  any  man  ever  the  like  o'  that? 
But  just  you  bide  till  I've  done.  "  Can  a  boy 
learn  to  do  without  drink  ?"  I  wants  to  know — 
for  beer's  been  my  downfall.  "  He  can,"  says 
thicky  man.  "  And  love  ?  "  I  says  ;  and  "  No," 
says  he  straight,  "  he  cannot.  But  he  can  learn 
the  way  of  it ;  and  that  'ull  teach  him  to  do  wi'out 
lust."  'Tis  a  wise  thought,  the  like  of  that,  I 
allow.' 


in  HOW  TO  SWALLOW  193 

The  gamekeeper  paused  for  the  murmurs  of 
his  auditory  to  circle  about  the  tap-room,  swell 
and  subside,  and  then  brought  out  his  conclusion. 
There  was  book  -  learning  to  be  faced.  '  How 
about  scholarship  ?  "  I'd  give  him  none,"  says  the 
man.  "  Swallerin'  comes  by  nature,  and  through 
more  than  the  mouth.  I'd  open  him  his  eyes  and 
ears,  his  fingers  and  toes,  and  the  very  hairs  on  the 
back  of  his  hands  ;  and  they'll  all  swaller  in  time, 
like  the  parts  of  the  beastes  do."  Now,  that's 
a  learned  man,  I  allow.  My  boy  must  go  to  the 
Council  School  it  does  appear  ;  but  thicky  man 
will  give  him  more  teaching  in  a  week  than  school- 
master in  a  year — and  there  he  goes  o'  Saturdays 
— and  wants  no  driving,  moreover.'  He  returned 
to  his  beer,  thoughtful-eyed. 

The  gamekeeper's  son  was  twelve  years  old, 
and  was  the  nucleus  round  which  grew  the  Sen- 
husian  school  of  a  later  day,  where  neither  read- 
ing nor  writing  could  be  had  until  the  pupil  was 
fifteen  years  old.  But  this  is  anticipatory,  for 
the  school  was  a  matter  of  long  gestation  and 
tentative  birth. 


II 

One  September  midnight,  as  he  stirred  a  late 
supper  over  a  small  wood-fire,  he  was  hailed  by  a 
cry  from  above.  '  Ho,  you  !  I  ask  shelter,'  he 
was  adjured.  The  quarter  moon  showed  him  a 
slim  figure  dark  against  the  sky. 

i  Come  down,  and  you  shall  have  it,'  he  an- 
swered, and  continued  to  skim  his  broth. 

The  descent  was  painfully  made,  and  it  was 
long  before  the  traveller  stood  blinking  by  his  fire 
— a  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed  lad.  Senhouse  took 
him  in  at  a  glance,  stained,  out-at-elbows  with  the 
world,  nursing  a  grudge,  footsore  and  heartsore. 
He  had  a  gypsy  look,  and  yet  had  not  a  gypsy 
serenity.  That  is  a  race  that  is  never  angry  at 
random  ;  and  never  bitter  at  large.  A  gypsy  will 
want  a  man's  life  ;  but  if  the  man  is  not  before 
him,  will  be  content  to  wait  until  he  is.  But  this 
wanderer  seemed  to  have  a  quarrel  with  time  and 
place,  that  they  held  not  his  enemy  by  the  gullet. 

'You  travel  late,  my  friend,'  said  Senhouse 
briskly. 

'  I  travel  by  night,'  said  the  stranger,  *  lest  I 
should  be  seen  by  men  or  the  sun.' 

Senhouse  laughed.  '  "  In  girum  imus  noctu^  non 
ut  consumimur  igni."     They  used  to  say  that   of 

194 


bk.hi     THE  STRANGER  BY  NIGHT       195 

the  devils  once  upon  a  time.  Devilish  bad  Latin  ; 
but  it  reads  backwards  as  well  as  forwards,  like  the 
devil  himself.' 

1  My  devil  rides  on  my  back/  said  the  stranger, 
4  and  carries  with  him  the  fire  that  roasts  me.' 

He  was  at  once  bitter  and  sententious.  Sen- 
house  put  down  his  hurts  to  bruises  of  the  self- 
esteem. 

*  I  hope  that  you  dropped  him  up  above,'  he 
said  cheerfully,  *  or  that  you  will  let  me  exorcise 
him.  I've  tried  my  hand  with  most  kinds  of  devil. 
Are  you  a  Roman  ? ' 

*  Half,'  he  was  told ;  and,  guessing  which  half, 
asked  no  more  questions. 

'  You  are  pretty  well  done,  I  can  see,'  he  said. 
'You  want  more  than  food.  You  want  warm 
water,  and  a  bed,  and  a  dressing  for  your  feet. 
You've  been  on  the  road  too  long.' 

The  stranger  was  huddled  by  the  fire,  probing 
his  wounded  feet.  *  I'm  cut  to  pieces,'  he  said. 
*  I've  been  over  stubbles  and  flint.  This  is  a  cruel 
country.' 

*  It's  the  sweetest  in  the  world,'  Senhouse  told 
him,  '  when  you  know  your  way  about  it.  When 
you  have  the  hang  of  it  you  need  not  touch  the 
roads.  You  smell  out  the  hedgerows,  and  every 
borstal  leads  you  out  on  to  the  grass.  But 
I'll  own  that  there  are  thistles.  I  wear  sandals 
myself.  Now,'  he  continued,  ladling  out  of  his 
pot  with  a  wooden  spoon,  *  here's  your  porridge, 
and  there  are  bread  and  salt ;  and  here  water,  and 
here  goats'  milk.  Afterwards  you  shall  have  a 
pipe  of  tobacco,  and  some  tea.     Best  begin  while 


196  REST  HARROW  book 

all's  hot — and  while  you  eat  I'll  look  to  your 
wounds.  Finally,  you  shall  be  washed  and 
clothed/ 

He  went  away,  returning  presently  with  water 
and  a  napkin.  Kneeling,  he  bathed  his  guest's 
feet,  wiped  them,  anointed,  then  wrapped  them 
up  in  the  napkin.  The  disconsolate  one,  mean- 
time, was  supping  like  a  wolf.  He  gulped  at  his 
porridge  with  quick  snaps,  tore  his  bread  with  his 
teeth.  Senhouse  gave  him  time,  quietly  eating 
his  own  supper,  watching  the  red  gleam  die  down 
in  the  poor  wretch's  eyes.  Being  himself  a  spare 
feeder,  he  was  soon  done,  and  at  further  business 
of  hospitality.  He  set  a  great  pipkin  of  water  to 
heat,  brought  out  a  clean  robe  of  white  wool,  a 
jelab  like  his  own,  and  made  some  tea. 

The  stranger,  then,  being  filled,  cleansed  and 
in  warm  raiment,  stretched  himself  before  the  fire, 
and  broke  silence.  He  was  still  surly,  but  the 
grudge  was  not  audible  in  his  voice.  *  I  took  your 
fire  for  a  gypsy  camp,  and  was  glad  enough  of  it. 
I've  come  by  the  hills  from  Winterslow  since 
dusk.  You  were  right,  though  :  I  was  done.  I 
couldn't  have  dragged  another  furlong.' 

Senhouse  nodded.  *  I  thought  not.  Been  long 
on  the  road  ?  ' 

*  Two  months.' 

'  From  the  North,  I  think  ?     From  Yorkshire  ? ' 

The  stranger  grunted  his  replies.  His  host 
judged  that  he  had  reasons  for  his  reticence. 
There  was  a  pause. 

'  You  sup  late,'  was  then  observed. 

Senhouse  replied,  *  I  generally  do.     I  take  two 


HEALTH  AND  SOLITUDE         197 

meals  a  day — the  first  at  noon,  the  second  at  mid- 
night ;  but  I  believe  that  I  could  do  without  one 
of  them.  I  never  was  much  of  an  eater — and  I 
need  very  little  sleep.  Somehow,  although  I  am 
out  at  sunrise  most  mornings,  I  rarely  sleep  till 
two  or  thereabouts.  Four  hours  are  enough  for 
me — and  in  the  summer  much  less.  Sometimes, 
when  the  fit  is  on  me,  I  roam  all  night  long,  and 
come  back  and  do  my  routine — and  then  sleep 
where  I  am,  or  may  be.  Precisians  would  grow 
mad  at  such  a  life — and  yet  I'm  awfully  healthy.' 

The  stranger  watched  him.  'You  live  here, 
then — and  so  ?  \ 

4 1  have  lived  here/  said  Senhouse,  ■  for  three 
years  or  more ;  but  IVe  lived  so  for  over  twenty. 
I've  wandered  for  most  of  that  time,  and  know 
England  from  end  to  end  ;  but  now  I  seem  to 
have  got  into  a  backwater,  and  I  find  that  I  travel 
farther,  and  see  more,  than  I  did  when  I  was 
hardly  for  a  week  together  in  the  same  place. 
But  that's  reasonable  enough,  if  you  think  of  it. 
If  you  can  do  without  time,  space  goes  with  it. 
If  it  don't  matter  when  you  are,  it  don't  matter 
where. ,' 

The  stranger  lent  this  reasoning  his  gloomy 
meditation,  which  turned  it  inwards  to  himself 
and  his  rueful  history.  '  I  don't  follow  you,  I 
believe/  he  said,  '  for  very  good  reason.  I  hope 
you  will  never  learn  as  I  have  that  it  does  matter 
where  you  are.'  He  stopped,  then  added,  as  if 
the  admission  was  wrung  out  of  him,  *  I've  been 
in  prison.' 

1  So  have  1/  said  Senhouse,  ■  and  in  Siberia  at 


198  REST  HARROW  book 

that.  I  was  there  for  more  than  a  year,  though 
not  all  that  time  within  walls.  They  let  me  loose 
when  they  found  that  I  could  be  trusted,  and  I 
learned  botany,  and  caught  a  marsh  fever  which 
nearly  finished  me.  They  wouldn't  have  me  in 
after  that,  being  quite  content  that  I  should  rot  in 
the  open.  I  was  succoured  by  a  woman,  one  of 
those  noble  creatures  who  are  made  to  give  them- 
selves. She  gave  me  what  blood  she  had  left. 
God  bless  her  :  she  blessed  me.' 

*  It  was  a  woman,'  said  the  stranger,  '  that  sent 
me  to  prison.' 

Senhouse,  after  looking  him  over,  calmly 
replied,  *  I  don't  believe  you.  You  mean,  I  think, 
that  there  was  a  woman,  and  you  went  to  prison. 
You  confuse  her  and  your  feelings  about  her. 
It  is  natural,  but  not  very  fine-mannered.  No 
woman  would  have  put  the  thing  as  you  have  put 
it  to  me.' 

The  stranger  shifted  two  or  three  times  under 
his  host's  quiet  regard  ;  presently  he  said,  '  This 
is  the  tale  in  a  nutshell.  She  was  beautiful  and 
kind  to  me  ;  she  was  in  a  hateful  place,  and  I 
loved  her — and  she  knew  it.  There  was  a  man 
with  claims — rights  he  had  none — preposterous 
claims,  made  infamous  by  his  acts.  The  position 
was  impossible,  intolerable.  She  knew  it,  but  did 
nothing.  Women  are  like  that — endlessly  endur- 
ing ;  but  men  are  not.  I  dragged  him  off  a 
horse  and  thrashed  him.  He  had  me  to  gaol, 
and  she  went  her  ways,  leaving  a  note  for  me, 
hoping  I  should  do  well.  Do  well !  Much  she 
cares  what  I  do.      Much  care  I.'     He  ended  with 


in  SENHOUSE  ON  GLYDE  199 

a  sob  which  was  like  the  cough  of  a  wolf  at  night, 
and  then  turned  his  face  away. 

*  Why  should  she  care,'  asked  Senhouse,  *  what 
becomes  of  you?  By  your  act  you  dropped 
yourself  out  of  her  sphere.  If  she  was  to  be 
degraded,  as  you  call  it,  by  whom  was  she 
degraded  ?  But  you  talk  there  a  language  which 
I  don't  understand.  You  say  that  she  was 
beautiful,  and  I  suppose  you  know  what  you  mean 
by  the  word.  How  then  is  a  beautiful  person  to 
be  degraded  by  anything  the  likes  of  you,  or  your 
fellow -dog,  do  to  her?  The  thing's  absurd. 
You  can't  claw  her  soul  or  blacken  the  edges  of 
that.  You  can't  sell  that  into  prostitution  or 
worse.  That  is  her  own,  and  it's  that  which 
makes  her  beautiful, — in  spite  of  the  precious 
pair  of  you,  bickering  and  mauling  each  other  to 
possess  her.  Possess  her,  poor  fool  !  Can  you 
possess  moonlight?  If  you  have  degraded  any- 
thing, you  have  degraded  yourself.  She  remains 
where  she  is,  entirely  out  of  your  reach.' 

The  young  man  now  turned  his  trapped  and 
wretched  face  to  the  speaker.  *  You  little  know — ' 
he  began,  then  for  weakness  stopped.  *  I  can't 
quarrel  with  you;  wait  till  I've  had  a  night's 
rest.' 

*  You  shall  have  it,  and  welcome,'  said  Senhouse. 
1  But  you'll  never  quarrel  with  me.  I  believe 
I've  got  beyond  that  way  of  enforcing  arguments 
which  I  fear  may  be  unsound.  I  doubt  if  I  have 
quarrelled  with  anybody  for  twenty  years.' 

*  There  are  some  things  which  no  man  can 
stand,'  said  the  other,  *  and  that  was  one.     Your 


200  REST  HARROW  book 

talk  of  the  soul  is  very  fine  ;  but  do  you  say  that 
you  don't  love  a  woman's  body  as  well  as  her 
soul?' 

Senhouse  was  silent  for  a  while  ;  then  he  said, 
4  No, — I  can't  say  that.  You  have  me  there.  I 
ought  to,  but  I  can't.  And  I  think  I  owe  you  an 
apology  for  my  heat,  for  the  fact  is  that  I've  been 
in  much  of  your  position  myself.  There  was  a 
man  once  upon  a  time  that  I  felt  like  thrashing — 
for  much  of  your  reason.  But  I  didn't  do  it — 
for  what  seemed  to  me  unanswerable  reason.  I 
did  precisely  the  opposite — I  did  everything  I 
could  to  ensure  a  miserable  marriage  for  the  being 
I  loved  best  in  all  the  world.  I  loathed  the  man, 
I  loathed  the  bondage  ;  but  that's  what  I  did. 
Now  mark  what  follows.  I  didn't — I  couldn't — 
degrade  her  ;  but  I  saw  myself  dragging  like  a 
worm  in  the  mud  while  she  soared  out  of  my 
reach.  And  there  I've  been — of  the  slime  slimy 
ever  since.  Where  she  is  now  I  don't  know,  but 
I  think  in  heaven.  Heaven  lay  in  her  eyes — and 
whenever  I  look  at  the  sky  at  night  I  see  her 
there.' 

*  You  are  talking  above  my  head,'  said  the 
stranger, ■  or  above  your  own.  Either  I  am  a  fool, 
or  you  a  madman.  You  love  a  woman,  and  give 
her  to  another  man  ?  You  love  her,  and  secure  her 
in  slavery  ?     You  love  her,  and  don't  want  her  ? ' 

*  It  is  I  that  am  the  fool,  not  you,'  said 
Senhouse.  *  I  do  want  her.  I  want  nothing  else 
in  earth  or  heaven.  And  yet  I  know  that  I  have 
her  for  ever.  Our  souls  have  touched  each  other. 
She  is  mine  and  I  am  hers.     And  yet  I  want  her.' 


Ill 


HYMN  TO  BEAUTY  201 


1  Won't  you  get  her  ?  Don't  you  believe  that 
you  will  ? ' 

*  God  knows  !     God  knows  ! ' 
'  She  was  beautiful  ? ' 

1  The  dawn/  said  Senhouse,  *  was  not  more 
purely  lovely  than  she.  The  dawn  was  in  her 
face — the  awfulness  of  it  as  well  as  its  breathless 
beauty.' 

*  My  mistress,'  said  the  young  man,  *  had  the 
gait  of  a  goddess  in  the  corn.  One  thought  of 
Demeter  in  the  wheat.  She  was  like  ivory  under 
the  moon.  She  laughed  rarely,  but  her  voice  was 
low  and  thrilled.' 

*  Her  breath,'  Senhouse  continued,  *  was  like 
the  scent  of  bean -flowers.  She  sweetened  the 
earth.  It  is  true  that  she  laughed  seldom,  but 
when  she  did  the  sun  shone  from  behind  a  cloud. 
When  she  was  silent  you  could  hear  her  heart 
beat.  She  was  deliberate,  measured  in  all  that 
she  did — yet  her  spirit  was  as  swift  as  the  south- 
west wind.  She  did  nothing  that  was  not  lovely,' 
and  never  faltered  in  what  she  purposed.  When 
first  I  came  to  know  her  and  see  the  workings 
of  her  noble  mind,  I  was  so  happy  in  the  mere 
thought  of  her  that  I  sang  all  day  as  1  worked  or 
walked.  It  never  entered  me  for  one  minute 
that  I  could  desire  anything  but  the  knowledge 
of  her.' 

*  I  wanted  my  mistress  altogether,'  the  other 
broke  in,  '  from  the  first  moment  to  the  last — fool, 
and  wicked  fool,  as  you  may  think  me.  I  could 
see  her  bosom  stir  her  gown — I  could  see  the  lines 
of  her  as  she  walked.     She  was  kind  to  me,  I  tell 


202  REST  HARROW  book 

you,  and  there  were  times  when — alone  with  her 
— in  her  melting  mood — in  the  wildness  of  my 
passion — but  no  !  something  held  me  :  I  never 
dared  touch  her.  .  .  .  And  then  he — the  other — 
came  back  ;  he,  with  his  "  claims  "  and  "  rights  "  ; 
and  the  thought  of  him,  and  what  he  could  do — 
and  did  do — made  me  blind.  You  tell  me  that 
I  sinned  against  her — ' 

' 1  don't,'  said  Senhouse.  *  I  tell  you  that  you 
sinned  against  love.     You  don't  know  what  love  is.' 

1  You  say  so.  Maybe  you  know  nothing  about 
it.  If  you  have  reduced  yourself  to  be  contented 
with  the  soul  of  a  woman,  I  have  not.  What 
have  I  to  do  with  the  soul  ? ' 

1  Evidently  nothing,'  said  Senhouse.  '  How, 
pray,  do  you  undertake  to  apprehend  body's 
beauty  unless  you  discern  the  soul  in  it — on  which 
it  shapes  its  beauty  ? ' 

' 1  know,'  the  other  replied,  *  that  she  has  a 
lovely  body,  and  gracious,  free-moving  ways  ;  and 
I  could  have  inferred  her  soul  from  them.  I'll 
engage  that  you  did  the  same  thing.  How  are 
you  to  judge  of  the  soul  but  by  the  hints  which 
the  body  affords  you  ? ' 

Senhouse  made  no  answer,  but  remained  mus- 
ing. When  he  spoke  it  was  as  if  he  was  resuming 
a  tale  half-told.  .  .  . 

'  She  was  in  white — white  as  a  cloud — and  in 
a  wood.  Her  hair  reflected  gold  of  the  sun. 
She  pinned  her  skirts  about  her  waist,  and  put 
her  bare  foot  into  a  pool  of  black  water.  She 
sank  in  it  to  the  knee.  She  did  not  falter  ;  her 
eyes  were  steady  upon  what  she  did.' 


in  PARADOX  203 

The  stranger  took  him  up  where  he  stopped, 
and  continued  the  tale.  *  She  could  never  falter  in 
her  purpose.  She  bared  herself  to  the  thighs. 
She  went  into  the  pool  thigh-deep.  Whiter  than 
the  lilies  which  she  went  to  save,  she  raked  the 
weed  from  them — you  helping  her/ 

*  She  did/  said  Senhouse,  his  eyes  searching  the 
fire.  'And  when,  afterwards,  she  did  what  her 
heart  bade  her,  she  never  faltered  either,  though 
she  steeped  her  pure  soul  in  foulness  compared  to 
which  the  black  water  was  sweet.  But  do  you 
suppose  that  any  evil  handling  would  stain  her? 
You  fool !  You  are  incapable  of  seeing  a  good 
woman.  In  the  same  breath  with  which  I  spurned 
myself  for  having  a  moment's  fear  for  her,  I 
thanked  God  for  having  let  me  witness  her  action/ 

The  rebuke  was  accepted,  not  because  it  was 
felt  to  be  justified  ;  but  rather,  it  passed  unheeded. 
The  stranger  had  questions  to  ply. 

4  Knowing  her,  loving  her — loveworthy  as  she 
was — how  could  you  leave  her  ? ' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  Senhouse,  ■  I  have 
never  left  her/  But  in  the  next  breath  he  had 
to  qualify  his  paradox. 

He  spoke  vehemently.  ■  I  had  of  her  all  that 
I  dared  have.  That  has  never  left  me.  I  had  all 
that  she  could  give  me — she  that  was  self-sufficing, 
not  to  be  imparted.  She  did  not  love  me,  as  you 
could  understand  love  :  I  don't  think  she  could 
love  anybody.  But  I  only  could  read  her  thoughts 
and  grasp  her  troubles  for  her.  She  was  at  ease 
with  me,  let  me  write  to  her,  was  glad  to  see  me 
when  I  came,  but  perfectly  able  to  do  without  me. 


2o4  REST  HARROW  book 

She  was,  of  course,  not  human  ;  she  inhabited 
elsewhere.  Her  "  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt 
apart."  She  remembered  things  as  they  had  been, 
yet  not  as  affecting  her  to  pleasure  or  pain  ;  she 
remembered  them  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  as  things 
witnessed.  So  she  remembered  me — and  so  she 
still  does.  If  I  was  there,  with  her,  she  was  glad  ; 
if  I  was  not  there,  she  wasn't  sorry.  I  was  nothing 
to  her  but  a  momentary  solace — and  I  knew  it  and 
taught  myself  to  be  contented.  I  believe  that  she 
was  the  spirit  of  immortal  youth  fleeting  over  the 
world.  I  called  her  Hymnia.  What  Beatrice 
was  to  Dante,  the  visible  incarnation  of  his  dream 
of  holiness,  such  was  she  to  me.  I  picture  her 
and  Beatrice  together  in  heaven. 

In  the  clear  spaces  of  heaven, 
As  sisters  and  lovers,  sit 
Beatrice  and  Thou  embraced — 
Hand  and  hand,  waist  and  waist, 
And  smile  at  the  worship  given 
By  Earth,  and  the  men  in  it 
To  whom  you  were  manifest. 

I  quote  my  own  poetry,  because,  oddly  enough, 
nobody  else  has  remarked  upon  the  fact/ 

He  continued  :  '  When  she  did  what  it  pleased 
her  to  do,  it  was  said  by  fools  that  I  had  inspired 
her.  Fool  among  fools,  I  thought  so  myself  at  the 
time,  and  moved  Earth  and  Heaven,  and  Hell  and 
Ingram,  to  save  her  from  an  act  of  magnanimity 
the  like  of  which  I  have  never  heard  of.  Bless 
you !  if  I  had  never  lived,  she  would  have  acted 
as  she  did,  because  she  was  incapable  of  seeing  evil, 
incapable  of  acting  against  her  heart.     Well !  and 


,„  HYMNIA  DESPOINA  205 

the  thing  was  done — and  I  had  to  face  it.  I  had 
it  all  out  with  myself,  and  decided  that  no  harm 
could  come  to  her.  From  that  hour  1  have  never 
seen  her  with  my  waking  eyes.  Yet  she  is  here. 
She  is  always  here.  .  .  . 

1  My  answer  to  you  is  simple.  I  have  all  of 
her  of  which  I  am  capable.  I  have  never  left  her 
because  she  has  never  left  me.  .  .  . 

*  I  wrote  out  my  heart  in  my  first  years  of 
knowing  her  ;  but  since  then  I  have  gone  under 
the  harrow  of  this  world,  where  there  can  be  no 
singing.  Now  that  I  am  at  peace  my  voice  has 
come  back.  I  listen  to  what  she  tells  me,  and 
note  it.  Like  Dante,  vo  significando ;  I  am  a  drain- 
pipe for  her  spirit.  She  was  Hymnia  to  me  once, 
and  I  sang  of  Open  Country  ;  now  she  is  Despoina, 
Mistress  of  the  Night.  Words  come  thronging 
to  me,  phrases,  rhythms  ;  but  not  Form.  I  shall 
get  out  a  poem  one  of  these  days  —  when  the 
harrow  rests.  And  that  will  be  its  name  :  Rest 
Harrow/ 

He  broke  out  after  a  pause — c  Her  beauty  ! 
What  is  it  to  the  purpose  to  put  its  semblance  into 
words  ?  Its  significance  is  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
We  see  the  earth  as  hill  and  valley,  pasture  and 
cloud,  sky  and  sea.  Really  it  is  nothing  of  the 
kind,  but  infinitely  more.  It  is  tireless  energy, 
yearning,  force,  profusion,  terror,  immutability  in 
variety.  What  are  words  to  such  a  power?  It 
is  to  that  I  stretch  out  my  arms.  I  must  lie 
folded  in  that  immensity,  drown  and  sink  in  it, 
till  it  and  I  are  one.  I  must  be  resumed  into  the 
divine  energy  whose  appearance  is  but  a  broken 


206  REST  HARROW  book 

hint  of  it.  So  it  is  with  Her:  not  what  she 
appears,  but  what  she  stands  for  is  the  miracle. 
Her  beauty  is  not  in  dimple  and  curve,  though 
her  breasts  are  softer  than  the  snowy  hills,  and  the 
liquor  of  her  mouth  sweeter  than  honey  of  limes. 
If  I  lay  on  the  floor  of  the  iEgean  and  looked 
up  to  the  sun  I  should  not  see  such  blue  as 
glimmers  in  her  eyes.  But  these  are  figures, 
halting  symbols.  Her  form,  her  glow,  her  eager, 
lovely  breath  are  her  soul  put  into  speech  for  us 
to  read.  You  might  say  that  her  nobility  was  that 
of  the  Jungfrau  on  a  night  of  stars.  So  her 
body's  beauty  is  but  a  poem  written  by  God 
about  her  soul.' 

Glyde  sat  up  and  looked  at  him  across  the  fire. 
*  I  know  you.  There  is  but  one  man  who  has 
loved  her  as  you  do.  You  are  her  poet.  You  are 
Senhouse.' 

Senhouse  nodded.  *  That  is  my  name.  You 
know  her,  then  ? '  His  face  glowed  darkly.  '  You 
have  known  her — you  ! ' 

'  I  saw  her  four  months  ago.  I  was  in  servitude 
in  a  house  where  she  too  was  made  a  servant.  For 
her  sake,  I  tell  you  again,  I  downed  Ingram/ 

Senhouse  said  sharply,  '  It  was  for  your  own. 
You  aren't  fit  to  talk  about  her.  You  have  unclean 
lips.  You  don't  hurt  her,  for  you  cannot.  You 
hurt  yourself  infinitely.  Why,  a  dog  would  do  as 
you  did,  and  possibly  be  right ;  but  you,  not  being 
a  dog,  have  broken  your  own  rules.  You  have 
trodden  on  your  own  honour,  and,  like  the  dull 
fool  that  you  are,  come  out  wrapped  in  your  silly 
self-esteem  as  if  it  was  a  flag.     I  wish  that  you 


in  THE  RAT  IN  HARBOUR  207 

could  see  yourself  as  I  see  you — or  rather  I  hope 
you  never  may  ;  for  if  you  did  you  would  see  no 
reason  to  live.'  The  words,  frozen  with  scorn, 
cut  like  hailstones.  The  guest  cowered,  with  the 
whip  about  his  face.     Senhouse  rose. 

1  Follow  me,*  he  said. 

Glyde  also  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  as  if  he  was 
giddy,  looked  blankly  about  him.  ■  O  God,  what 
have  I  done  ?  O  God,  what  am  I  ? '  He  dashed 
his  hand  over  his  eyes.  ■  I  can't  see.  I  suppose  I 
never  could.'  He  turned  upon  Senhouse.  i  You  ! 
Why  do  you  harbour  such  a  rat  as  I  ? ' 

Senhouse  gave  him  pitiful  eyes.  *  If  you  think 
yourself  rat,  you  are  in  the  way  to  be  more.  Come, 
we  will  be  friends  yet.  You're  near  the  end  of 
your  tether,  I  think.  Let  me  tuck  you  into  a 
blanket.' 


Ill 

In  the  morning  Glyde,  in  a  humble  mood,  drank 
quantities  of  small  beer.  In  other  words,  he  told 
his  story  of  Sanchia,  of  Ingram,  and  of  Mrs. 
Wilmot.  He  was  so  steered  by  questions  from 
Senhouse  that  he  came,  towards  the  end,  to  see 
that  if  any  one  had  driven  his  mistress  into  a  life 
of  bondage  to  Ingram  it  was  himself  and  his 
presumptuous  arm. 

'  You  must  have  offended  her  beyond  expres- 
sion/ he  was  told.  ■  First,  her  fine  esteem  in  her 
own  spotless  robe,  which  you  have  smeared  with 
beastly  blood  and  heat  ;  next,  her  sense  of  reason 
clear  as  day  ;  next,  and  worst,  her  logical  faculty 
by  which  she  sees  it  to  be  a  law  of  the  earth  that 
nothing  can  be  bought  without  a  price.  Oh,  you 
precious  young  donkey  !  And  who  the  mischief 
are  you,  pray,  to  meddle  in  the  affairs  of  high 
ladies — you  who  can't  manage  your  own  better 
than  to  do  with  your  foolish  muscles  what  is  the 
work  of  a  man's  heart  ?  Love  !  You  don't  know 
how  to  spell  the  word.  But  I  am  getting  angry 
again,  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  shall  do  with  you.  You  shall  stay  with  me 
here  till  you  are  well,  and  then  you  shall  go  to 
London  and  find  Despoina — ' 

208 


bk.  in  TRUTHS  FOR  GLYDE  209 

*  Do  you  mean  Sanchia  ? '  Glyde  was  still 
unregenerate  at  heart. 

1 1  mean  whom  I  say,  your  mistress  and  mine. 
You  are  not  fit  to  name  her  by  any  other  name.' 

*  No,  no — I  know  it,'  said  the  youth  ;  ■  but  her 
name  is  so  beautiful.' 

1  Everything  about  her  is  beautiful,'  said  Sen- 
house,  *  therefore  see  that  you  go  to  her  cleansed 
and  sweetened.  Now,  when  you  have  found  her 
you  shall  beg  her  pardon  on  your  knees — ' 

1  Never  !  '  said  Glyde,  grittily  in  his  teeth. 

4  On  your  heart's  knees,  you  fool,'  cried  Scnhouse, 
with  a  roar  which  rolled  about  the  hills.  *  On  the 
knees  of  your  rat's  heart.  You  shall  beg  her  pardon 
on  your  knees  for  your  beastly  interference,  pre- 
sumption, mulishness,  and  graceless  manhood  ;  and 
then  you  shall  leave  her  immediately,  and  thank 
God  for  the  breath  of  her  forgiveness.  This  also 
is  important.  You  are  not  to  name  me  who  have 
sent  you.'  His  eyes  shone  with  the  gleam  of  tears. 
*  Never  name  me  to  her,  young  Glyde,  for  I'll 
tell  you  now  that  for  every  stripe  I've  dusted  your 
jacket  with  you  owe  me  forty — and  you  can  lay  on 
when  you  please.' 

1  For  I,'  he  continued,  after  a  pause  for  breath, 
while  Glyde  stared  fearfully  upon  him,  *  for  I,  too, 
have  betrayed  her.' 

They  said  no  more  at  that  time,  but  all  day 
Glyde  followed  Senhouse  about  like  a  dog. 

In  the  evening  of  what  to  the  undrilled  youth 
was  a  hard-spent  day,  Senhouse  unfolded  his  heart 
and  talked  long  and  eloquently  of  love  and  other 
mysteries  of  our  immortal  life. 

p 


2io  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


1  The  attainment  of  our  desires,'  he  said, 
*  appears  to  every  one  of  us  to  be  a  Law  of 
Nature,  and  so,  no  doubt,  it  is.  But  that  is 
equally  valid  which  says,  "  To  every  man  that 
which  he  is  fit  to  enjoy."  The  task  of  men  is  to 
reconcile  the  two.  That  once  done  you  are  whole 
— nay,  you  are  holy.' 

1  I  believe  that  I  am  in  the  way  of  that  salvation, 
look  you,  for  I  know  now  that  there  is  hardly  a 
thing  upon  the  earth  which  I  cannot  do  without. 
That  being  so,  and  all  things  of  equal  value,  or  of 
no  value,  I  have  them  all.  They  are  at  the  dis- 
posal of  that  part  of  myself  which  enters  no  markets 
and  cannot  be  chaffered  away.  Wind,  rain,  and 
sun  have  bleached  me  ;  dinners  of  herbs  have 
reduced  my  flesh  to  obedience  ;  incessant  toil,  with 
meditation  under  the  stars,  have  driven  my 
thoughts  along  channels  graved  deep  by  patient 
plodding  of  the  field.  I  am  become  one  with 
Nature.  I  have  watched  the  wheeling  of  the 
seasons  until,  to  escape  vertigo,  I  picture  myself  as 
a  fixed  point,  and  see  the  spheres  in  their  courses 
revolve  about  me.' 

Mystic  sayings,  aphorisms  oozed  from  him  like 
resin  from  a  pine. 

'  It  is  error  to  suppose  that  discomfort  is  holy. 
Holiness  is  harmony.  Men  have  lost  sight  of  the 
sanctity  of  the  body.  Rightly  considered,  indiges- 
tion is  a  great  sin. 

*  Passion,  which  is  a  state  of  becoming,  is  not 
holy,  for  holiness  is  a  state  of  being.  But  it  is 
noble,  because  it  is  a  straining  after  appeasement, 
which  is  a  harmony. 


in       SENHOUSE  ON  OUR  NATURE    211 

1  Man  is  an  ape,  or  a  god,  but  certainly  a  god 
in  this,  that  he  can  make  himself  either.  It  is  by 
no  means  certain,  however,  that  this  potentiality 
is  not  also  possessed  by  the  ape. 

*  Appeasement  of  passion  is  fulfilment  of  our 
being,  which  out  of  ferment  makes  wine,  through 
riot  seeks  rest.' 

He  was  not  always  so  transcendental.  Here  we 
have  him  closer  to  the  matter. 

1  A  woman  when  she  loves  is  a  seraph  winged. 
When  she  does  not  she  is  a  chrysalis,  a  husk,  or  a 
shell.  In  love  she  follows  the  man,  but  appears  to 
fly  him,  as  a  shepherd  goes  before  the  sheep  he  is 
really  driving.  Out  of  it  she  is  an  empty  vase,  to 
be  revered  by  us  for  the  sacred  wine  which  she  may 
hold,  as  a  priest  handles  fearfully  the  chalice. 

*  She  has  but  one  law,  the  law  of  her  love,  which 
says  to  her,  "Give,  give,  give."  See  here  how  she 
differs  from  the  man,  to  whom  love  is  but  one 
of  many  healthy  appetites — not  a  divine  mission. 
Love,  hunger,  hunting,  or  a  taste  for  picture-deal- 
ing, say  to  him,  "  Take,  take." 

*  Yet  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  sexes  go  in  fear  of 
each  other,  each  a  mystery  to  each.  For  my  part, 
I  have  never  been  close  to  a  woman  without  a  desire 
to  cover  my  eyes.' 

And  here  he  got  level  with  her,  and  showed  her 
radiant  beside  him. 

*  A  young  woman  with  shining  eyes,  blown-back 
hair  and  face  on  fire,  holding  out  her  heart  from 
the  threshold,  stretching  it  out  at  arms'  length, 
crying,  "  Who  will  take  this  ?  To  whom  may  I 
give  it  ?  "    A  vision  here  of  Heaven's  core  of  light. 


212  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


I  have  seen  it.     I,  Senhouse,  have  seen  the  Holy 
Grail. 

4  She  stood  with  me  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
world,  just  so,  with  blown-back  hair  and  shining 
eyes.  Blessed  one,  blessed  prodigal  !  She  poured 
out  her  heart  like  water — for  a  dog  to  lap.  He 
was  dog-headed,  full  in  the  eye,  a  rich  feeder. 
She  decked  him  with  the  fair  garlands  of  her 
thoughts,  she  made  him  glisten  with  her  holy  oils. 
She  crowned  him  with  starry  beams  from  her  eyes, 
she  sweetened  him  with  the  breath  of  her  pure 
prayers.  She  robed  him  in  white  and  scarlet,  for 
he  was  wrapped  in  her  soul  and  sprinkled  with  her 
passion.  And  she  said,  "  I  love  a  divine  person.  I 
am  ready  to  die  for  him.  Make  haste.  Pile  the 
fire,  sharpen  the  knife  ;  bind  me  with  cords,  and 
drive  deep.  I  die  that  he  may  live."  O  Gods, 
and  Sanchia  gave  herself  for  Nevile  Ingram  ! ' 

He  was  never  alone,  it  appeared,  for  she  was 
with  him  constantly,  a  vivifying  principle.  He 
had  ensphered  her  in  light  ;  she  was  unassailable — 
his  fly  in  amber.  Ingram,  Chevenix,  all  Wanless, 
might  have  daily  converse  with  her,  and  one  might 
grudge  her  her  self-sufficiency,  and  another  see  her 
a  pretty  girl  in  a  mess.  To  him  she  was  a  fairy 
in  harness,  '  a  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light,' 
to  whom  the  rubs  of  the  world  could  do  no  harm. 
She  wore  crystal  armour.  They  did  not  know 
her,  could  not  see  her,  those  who  used  her  for 
their  elemental  needs.  c  Her  soul  was  like  a  star 
and  dwelt  apart.' 

He  told  young  Glyde  that  he  had  reached  this 


in  HE  REVEALS  HER  213 

transcendental  eyrie  of  his  by  painful  degrees.  No 
person  of  Sanchia's  acquaintance  had  suffered  more 
than  he  by  her  desperate  affair.  He  had  been  her 
first  lover,  and  her  only  confidant,  for  she  had 
been  what  one  calls  a  *  difficult '  girl,  who  gave  out 
nothing  and  had  no  friends.  Her  sisters  knew 
very  little  about  her,  her  mother  nothing.  It  had 
been  Senhouse  who  had  called  up  the  spirit  that  was 
in  her — that  extraordinary  candour  of  vision  which 
shrank  from  the  judgment  of  nothing  in  heaven  or 
earth  ■  upon  the  merits/  He  had  himself  been  at 
first  amazed  by  her  quality  ;  but  before  he  had 
discovered  it  he  had  adored  her ;  so  it  had  seemed 
all  of  a  piece  with  her  exquisite  perfection.  That 
first  sight  he  had  had  of  her,  in  the  sun-dappled 
woodland  glade,  with  her  gown  above  her  knees, 
setting  her  foot  in  the  unknown  depths  of  a  black 
pool — that  she  might  rescue  lilies  from  suffocation 
— was  surely  typical  of  that  which  followed — when, 
barely  twenty-one,  she  trod  deliberately,  in  her 
world's  shocked  face,  a  road  which  leads  without 
return  to  a  point  at  which  the  world  says,  *  I  cannot 
see  you,  you  are  dead/  But  she  had  never  faltered, 
had  seen  no  shame,  and  felt  none.  Nevile  was 
unhappy,  and  needed  her.  If  there  was  no  other 
way  of  serving  him,  she  must  take  that  way.  So 
she  told  him,  Senhouse,  her  only  friend ;  and 
he  cried  aloud  in  his  agony,  *  God  save  her/ 
while  his  soul  was  saying,  *  Beatrice  never  shrank 
from  hell,  nor  ever  looked  back.  No  more,  God 
be  thanked,  does  Sanchia.'  When  the  thing  was 
done,  and  she  had  gone  with  unbowed  head  into 
the  deeps,  he  had  known  his  hours  of  desolation  ; 


2i4  REST  HARROW  book 

but  from  that  hour  she  had  stood  for  him  *  a  thing 
enskied  and  sainted.'  He  felt  that  he  was  set 
apart  for  her  worship,  and  only  regretted  that 
Beatrice  had  had  a  better  poet  for  the  business 
than  Sanchia  could  ever  hope  for. 

For  a  year  after  her  flight  he  continued  a 
correspondence  with  her  which  had  begun  with 
their  first  acquaintance  ;  and  then  he  had  stopped 
it,  not  she.  His  reason  shall  be  admitted,  to  his 
credit  or  not.  It  appeared  that  she  read  his 
letters,  as  they  came,  to  Nevile  Ingram — she  told 
him  so — and,  further,  that  Ingram  was  bored. 
Sanchia  did  not  tell  him  that,  but  he  gathered  it ; 
and  whether  he  felt  that  the  intimacy  was  fatally 
invaded,  or  whether  he  was  piqued — he  stopped. 
Within  two  years  or  so  from  that  he  wrote  once 
more  to  tell  her  that  he  was  about  to  'join 
fortunes '  with  Mary  Germain,  a  young  widow. 

She  knew  what  he  meant  by  that  :  he  was  too 
much  of  a  poet  to  be  anything  but  shocked  at  the 
marriage-bond.  She  hoped  the  best  for  him,  but 
his  letter  did  not  encourage  her. 

He  wrote,  '  She  is  good,  sweet  and  wholesome. 
I  have  taught  her  what  she  knows — I  mean  by 
that  that  I  have  helped  her  to  pick  up  a  clue  here 
and  there  to  take  her  by  some  means  to  the  heart 
of  our  mystery.  She  has  had  a  dreadful  mauling 
by  the  world  ;  but  her  brain  is  sound.  I  intend 
to  make  her  happy,  but  not  here.  We  go  to 
Baden  a-planting.  She  vows  she  will  keep  the 
door  of  my  tent  like  a  Bedouin's  wife.  It's  a 
great  test.  If  she  comes  through  it — with  her 
upbringing  —  she    will    show    mettle.     Farewell, 


SANCHIA  VEILED  215 

Queen  Mab.  One  does  what  one  must,  being 
man.     Pray  for  us  both.* 

She  answered  him  frankly  and  kindly.  Ingram 
was  away  on  one  of  his  long  absences,  and  she  felt 
acold.  *  I  shall  always  wish  for  your  happiness. 
How  could  I  ever  forget  what  you  did  to  give  me 
mine  ? '  He  read  that  as  meaning  that  she  had 
found  and  had  it  still,  so  wrote  no  more — not  even 
when  his  venture,  not  too  hopefully  begun,  had 
ended.  His  head  was  low  in  the  dust,  his  zest 
was  gone.  It  needed  his  austerities  and  solitude 
to  restore  his  tone. 

But  now,  in  his  hidden  valley,  she  never  left 
him,  though  she  was  always  veiled.  He  could  not 
call  up  her  blue  eyes'  magic,  nor  her  slow  smile, 
nor  the  touch  of  her  thin  fingers.  She  had  no 
bodily  semblance  ;  she  was  a  principle.  In  his 
exalted  mood,  being  tiptoe  for  Mystery,  he 
identified  her  with  the  Spirit  of  all  Life.  For  life 
to  him  was  a  straining  at  the  leash,  a  reaching  for 
the  unattainable,  a  preparation  to  soar.  He  saw 
all  things  flowing  towards  heaven,  which  to  him 
was  Harmony,  Rest,  what  he  called  Appeasement. 
And  all  this  straining  and  yearning  in  infinite 
variety  was  figured  to  him  in  Sanchia,  as  he  dis- 
cerned, but  could  not  perceive,  her  presence.  He 
made  her  out  in  elemental  images,  into  the  contours 
of  the  hills  read  her  bountiful  shape,  into  the 
onslaught  of  the  wind  her  dauntless  ardour.  In 
fire  leaped  her  pride,  in  the  mantling  snow  her 
chastity  was  proclaimed.  The  rain  was  her  largess, 
her  treasure  poured  to  enrich  mankind.  All 
flowers  were  sacred   to   her — frail   beauty  salient 


216  REST  HARROW  book 

from  the  earth.     He  never  looked  on  one  but  he 
blessed  her  name. 

On  a  later  day  he  read  a  poem  to  his  guest — 
which  he  called  the  Song  of  Mab.  By  this  name, 
it  seems,  he  also  figured  Sanchia,  whose  synonyms 
threatened  to  be  as  many  as  those  of  Artemis  or 
the  Virgin  Mary.  From  poring  for  signs  of  her 
in  the  face  of  earth  he  was  come  to  see  little  else. 
If  the  west  wind  was  her  breath  and  the  hills  were 
her  breasts,  it  needed  a  mystic  to  see  them  so  ;  and 
he  was  become  a  mystic.  A  glorified  and  non- 
natural  Sanchia  pervaded  the  poem,  which,  for  the 
form,  was  a  barbaric,  rough-hewn  chant,  stuffed 
with  words  and  great  phrases  which  had  the  effect 
rather  of  making  music  in  the  hearer  than  of 
containing  it  in  themselves.  It  was  poetry  by 
hints,  perpetually  moving,  initiating,  lyrical  phrases, 
then  breaking  off  and  leaving  you  with  a  melody 
in  your  ears  which  your  brain  could  not  render. 
Either  the  poet  was  inchoate  or  the  subtlest 
musician  of  our  day.  He  said  of  himself  that  he 
was  a  drain-pipe  for  the  spirit — a  dark  saying  to 
Glyde,  who  was  himself,  we  have  heard,  some- 
thing of  a  poet,  of  the  Byronic  tradition. 
The  youth  was  extremely  interested,  though 
seldom  moved  by  this  chaotic  piece.  He  was 
for  ever  on  the  point  to  drink,  and  had  the 
cup  snatched  away.  Senhouse  tormented  you 
with  possibilities  of  bliss — where  sight  merges 
in  sound  and  both  lift  together  into  a  triumphant 
sweep  of  motion — whirled  you,  as  it  were,  to  the 
gates  of  dawn,  showed  you  the  amber  glories  of 


in        CONFESSIONS  OF  SENHOUSE      217 

preparation,  thrilled  you  with  the  throb  or  sus- 
pense ;  then,  behold  !  coursing  vapours  and  gather- 
ing clouds  blot  out  the  miracle — and  you  end  in 
the  clash  of  thunderstorms  and  dissonances. 
Something  of  this  the  listener  had  to  urge. 
Senhouse  admitted  it,  but  he  said,  ■  You  know 
that  the  splendour  is  enacting  behind.  You  guess 
the  opening  of  the  rose.  One  stalks  this  earth 
agog  for  miracles.  It  is  full  of  hints — you  catch 
a  moment — for  flashed  instants  you  are  God. 
Then  the  mist  wraps  you,  and  you  blunder  forward, 
two-legged  man  swaying  for  a  balance.  Translate 
the  oracle  as  you  will — with  your  paint-pans,  with 
your  words — we  get  broken  lights,  half-phrases. 
But  we  guess  the  rest,  and  so  we  strain  and  grow. 
Who  are  you  or  I,  that  we  should  know  her  1 ' 

He  stuffed  the  pages  into  the  breast  of  his 
jelab,  and  sat  brooding  over  the  paling  fire  for  a 
while ;  then,  by  an  abrupt  transition,  he  said  :  ■  A 
fatal  inclination  for  instructing  the  young  was, 
perhaps,  my  undoing.  I  believe  that  I  am  a  prig 
to  the  very  fibres  of  me.  If  I  had  kept  my 
didactics  for  my  own  sex,  all  might  have  gone, 
well  :  I  have  never  doubted  but  that  I  had  things 
to  teach  my  generation  which  it  would  be  the 
happier  of  knowing.  But  it's  a  dangerous  power 
to  put  into  a  man's  hands  that  he  shall  instruct  his 
betters.  I  was  tempted  by  that  deadliest  flattery 
of  all,  and  I  fell.  Despoina  heard  me,  smiled  at 
me,  and  went  her  way  regardlessly  ;  but  my  poor 
Mary  was  a  victim.  She  heard  me,  and  took  it 
seriously.  She  thought  me  a  man  of  God.  I 
failed  absolutely,  and  so  badly  that  by   rights   I 


218  REST  HARROW  book 

ought  never  to  have  held  up  my  head  again.  But 
she  is  happy,  dear  little  soul,  after  her  own  peculiar 
fashion, — which  she  never  could  have  been  with 
me.  She  writes  to  me  now  and  then.  The  man, 
her  husband,  is  her  master,  but  not  a  bad  one. 
She  knows  it,  and  glories  in  him.  Isn't  that 
extraordinary  ? ' 

4  Not  at  all/  Glyde  said,  who  knew  nothing  of 
Mary.  '  It's  a  law  of  Nature.  The  woman 
follows  the  man.  I  suppose  you  treated  her  as  an 
equal  ? ' 

*  No,  as  a  superior,  which  she  plainly  was/  said 
Senhouse. 

'  Then/  Glyde  said,  looking  at  him,  '  then  you 
made  her  so.  If  you  fly  against  Nature,  you 
must  get  the  worst  of  it/  He  waited,  then  asked. 
*  It's  against  your  principles  to  marry  a  woman,  no 
doubt.' 

1  Quite,'  Senhouse  said.  *  It  seems  to  me  an 
insult  to  propose  it  to  her.' 

*  Your  Mary  didn't  think  so.' 

1  She  did  at  first  ;  but  she  couldn't  get  used 
to  it.' 

1  She  felt  naked  without  the  ring  ?  And 
ashamed  ? ' 

i  God  help  me,'  said  Senhouse,  *  that's  true. 
The  moment  I  realised  what  had  happened,  I 
gave  in.' 

*  And  then  she  refused  ? ' 

*  She  neither  accepted  nor  refused.  She  lived 
apart.  We  were  in  Germany  at  the  time.  I  was 
naturalising  plants  for  the  Grand  Duke  of  Baden 
— filling  the  rocks  and  glades  in  the  Black  Forest. 


Ill 


APOLOGIA  210 

She  went  into  an  hotel  in  Donaueschingen,  and  I 
went  to  see  her  every  day.  We  were  friends. 
Then  we  went  to  England,  to  London.  She  held 
to  that  way  of  life,  and  I  did  the  best  I  could  for 
myself.  At  any  moment  I  would  have  taken  her. 
I  considered  myself  bound  in  every  way.  I  could 
have  been  happy  with  her.  She  had  great  charm 
for  me — great  physical  charm,  I  mean — and  sweet, 
affectionate  ways.  I  could  have  made  her  a  wife 
and  a  mother. 

1 1  intended  her  the  highest  honour  I  could  show 
to  a  woman.  To  make  her  your  property  by  legal 
process  and  the  sanction  of  custom  seems  to  me 
like  sacrilege.  But,  however — One  day  she  told 
me  that  a  former  lover  of  hers  wanted  to  marry 
her,  and  left  it  for  me  to  judge.  She  wouldn't  say 
whether  she  wished  it  herself  or  not ;  but  I  knew 
that  she  did,  for  when  I  advised  her  to  accept  him 
she  got  up  and  put  her  arms  round  my  neck  and 
kissed  both  my  cheeks.  I  was  her  elder  brother, 
I  perceived,  and  said  so.  She  laughed,  and  owned 
to  it.  And  yet  she  had  loved  me,  you  know. 
She  had  refused  that  same  man  for  me.  She  was 
afraid  of  him,  and  gave  me  her  hand  before  his 
face/ 

*  That  to  me,'  Glyde  said,  *  is  proof  positive 
that  she  loved  him.  Of  course  she  feared  him. 
It  is  obvious.      My  poor  master  1 ' 

Senhouse  serenely  replied,  'She's  happy,  and 
I've  done  her  no  harm  at  all.  But  it's  impossible 
for  me  to  treat  any  living  creature  otherwise  than 
as  my  better.' 

1 1  believe  you,'  said  Glyde,  ■  and  so  it  may  be 


220  REST  HARROW  bookih 

in  a  rarer  world  than  this.  In  this  world,  how- 
ever, a  man  is  the  most  cunning  animal,  and  in 
that  both  are  flesh  he  is  the  stronger  of  the  sexes. 
In  this  world  the  law  is  that  the  woman  follows 
the  man.'  He  thought  before  he  spoke,  then 
added,  '  That  applies  all  this  world  over.  You 
will  marry  Sanchia.' 

Senhouse  would  not  look  up.  He  sat,  nursing 
one  leg.  He  bent  his  brows,  and  a  hot  flush  made 
his  skin  shine  in  the  firelight. 


IV 

The  poet  and  his  disciple  continued  their  partner- 
ship through  the  sogging  rains  of  Christmas,  well 
into  the  chill  opening  of  the  new  year.  Then 
came  the  snow  to  fill  up  the  valley  in  which  stood 
the  hut,  and  blur  the  outlines  of  the  folded  hills. 
Poetry  and  Sanchia  drew  together  a  pair  who  could 
have  little  in  common. 

But  Glyde  became  the  slave  of  the  strange  man 
who  blended  austerity  with  charitable  judgment, 
and  appeased  his  passion  by  blood  from  his  heart. 
He  was  not  himself  a  mystic,  but  a  sensitive  youth 
whom  the  world's  rubs  had  taught  the  uses  of  a 
thick  hide.  Either  you  have  that  by  nature  or 
you  earn  it  by  practice.  Glyde  had  found  out 
that  the  less  you  say  to  your  maltreaters  the  less, 
in  time,  you  have  to  say  about  it  to  yourself.  He 
was  conscious  of  his  parts  and  all  too  ready  to  be 
arrogant.  Senhouse's  goddess  had  been  kind  to 
him,  and  he  had  presumed  upon  that.  Senhouse's 
own  method  was  to  alternate  extreme  friendliness 
with  torrential  contempt.  He  knocked  Glyde 
down  and  picked  him  up  again  with  the  same  hand. 
He  treated  him  as  his  equal  whenever  he  was  not 
considering  him  a  worm.  There  is  no  better  way 
of  gaining  the  confidence  of  a  youth  of  his  sort 

221 


222  REST  HARROW 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  there  was  nothing  Glyde 
would  not  have  told  him  ;  at  the  end  of  six  months 
he  would  have  crossed  Europe  barefoot  to  serve 
him. 

He  was  nothing  of  a  mystic,  and  therefore  had 
his  own  ideas  of  what  seemed  to  afford  his  master 
so  much  satisfaction  ;  he  was  enough  of  a  poet  to 
be  sure  that  Senhouse's  romantic  raptures  were 
only  a  makeshift  at  best.  To  his  mind  here  was  a 
man  aching  for  a  woman.  He  thought  that  the 
poet  sang  to  ease  his  bleeding  heart.  He  came  to 
picture  the  mating  of  these  two  —  Sanchia  the 
salient,  beautiful  woman,  and  his  master  of  the 
clear,  long-enduring,  searching  eyes,  and  that 
strange  look  of  second-sight  upon  him  which 
those  only  have  who  live  apart  from  men,  under 
the  sky.  It  is  a  look  you  can  never  mistake. 
Sailors  have  it,  and  shepherds,  and  dwellers  in  the 
desert.  The  eye  sees  through  you — into  you,  and 
beyond  you.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  any 
person  to  be  either  so  arresting  in  himself  or  pos- 
sessed of  such  utterance  as  will  cause  the  weathered 
eye  to  check  its  scanning  of  distance  and  concen- 
trate upon  an  immediate  presence.  To  such  an 
eye,  communing  with  infinite  and  eternal  things, 
no  creature  of  time  and  space  can  interpose  solidly. 
Each  must  be  vain  and  clear  as  bubbles  of  air. 
Behind  it  float  spirits  invisible  to  other  men — 
essential  forms,  of  whose  company  the  seer  into 
distance  really  is.  He  will  neither  heed  you  nor 
hear  you  ;  his  conversation  is  otherwhere.  And 
what  then  would  Senhouse  do  confronted  with 
Sanchia?      Would  he  look  beyond  her,  towards 


in  GLYDE  WANTS  NEWS  223 

some  horizon  where  she  could  never  stand  ?  Or 
would  he  not  see  in  her  blue  eyes  the  goal  of  all 
his  searching — the  content  of  his  own  ?  What 
would  he  say  but  '  You  !  ■  and  take  her  ?  What 
she  but  sigh  her  content  to  be  taken  ?  Appease- 
ment is  holiness,  says  Senhouse.  And  what  of 
their  holy  life  thereafter,  breast  to  breast,  fronting 
the  dawn  ?  Glyde's  heart,  purged  of  his  dishonesty, 
beat  at  the  thought.  He  turned  all  his  erotic  over 
to  the  more  generous  emotion,  and  faced  with 
glowing  blood  the  picture  of  the  woman  he  had 
coveted  in  the  arms  of  the  master  he  avowed. 

When  February  began  to  show  a  hint  of  spring, 
in  pairing  plovers  and  breaking  eglantine,  Senhouse, 
in  a  temporary  dejection,  ceased  work  upon  his 
poem,  and  Glyde  said  that  he  must  know  the 
news.  All  through  the  winter  they  had  had  little 
communication  with  the  world  beyond  their  gates. 
A  shepherd  homing  from  the  folds,  a  sodden  tinker 
and  his  drab,  whom  he  touchingly  cherished,  a 
party  of  rabbit-shooters  beating  the  furze  bushes, 
had  been  all  their  hold  upon  a  life  where  men 
meet  and  hoodwink  each  other.  Once  in  a  week 
one  of  them  ploughed  through  the  drifts  to  the 
cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  third  valley,  and  got  as 
he  needed  flour  and  candles,  soap  or  matches.  It 
had  not  yet  occurred  to  either  of  them — to  Senhouse 
it  never  did  occur — to  beg  the  sight  of  a  newspaper. 
But  Saint  Valentine's  call  stirred  the  deeps  of  Glyde, 
who  now  said  that  he  must  have  news.  He  de- 
parted for  Sarum,  and  stayed  away  until  March 
was  in. 

He  returned  with  certain  information,  absorbed 


224  REST  HARROW  book 

by  Senhouse  with  far-sighted  patient  eyes  and  in 
silence.  The  only  indication  he  afforded  was  in- 
scrutable. His  cheek-bones  twitched  flickeringly, 
like  summer  lightning  about  the  hills. 

Sanchia,  Glyde  said,  was  well  and  in  London. 
She  was  living  in  a  street  off  Berkeley  Square,  with 
an  old  lady  who  wore  side-curls  and  shawls,  and 
drove  out  every  afternoon  in  a  barouche  with  two 
stout  horses  and  two  lean  men-servants.  Sanchia 
sometimes  accompanied  her,  stiff  and  pliant  at 
once,  bright-eyed  and  faintly  coloured.  She  was 
taken  about  to  parties  also,  and  to  the  opera — and 
very  often  there  were  parties  at  the  old  lady's 
house — carriage-company,  and  gentlemen  in  furred 
coats,  who  came  in  hansom  cabs.  He  thought 
that  she  had  suitors.  There  was  a  tall,  thin  man 
who  came  very  often  in  the  afternoons.  He  was 
sallow  and  melancholy,  and  wore  a  silk  muffler 
day  and  night.  Glyde  thought  that  he  was  a 
foreigner,  perhaps  a  Hungarian  or  Pole. 

He  had  seen  Sanchia  often,  but  she  could  not 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.  He  admitted  that 
he  had  haunted  the  house,  had  seen  her  come  out 
and  go  in,  knew  when  she  dressed  for  dinner  and 
when  she  went  to  bed.  Long  practice  had  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  significance  of  light  and 
darkness  seen  through  chinks  in  shutters.  4 1 
know  her  room/  he  said,  'and  the  times  of  her 
lights.  She  looks  out  over  the  streets  towards  the 
Park  twice  every  night — once  when  she  is  dressed, 
and  once  before  she  goes  to  bed.  It  is  as  if  she  is 
saying  her  prayers.  She  looks  long  to  the  west, 
very  seriously.     I  think  her  lips  move.     I  believe 


HE  GETS  IT  225 

that  she  always  does  it.'  Senhouse,  who  may  have 
been  listening,  bowed  his  head  to  his  knees,  below 
his  clasped  hands. 

■  Twice  she  looked  full  at  me  without  knowing 
me.  Why  should  she  know  me  now  ?  Her  pale 
and  serious  face,  master,  was  as  beautiful  as  the 
winter  moon,  as  remote  from  us  and  our  little 
affairs.  No  words  of  mine  can  express  to  you  the 
outward  splendour  of  her  neck  and  bosom.  She 
was  uncovered  for  a  party  at  the  house.  In  the 
morning  she  came  out  to  walk.  You  know  her 
way,  how  she  glides  rather  than  seems  to  move 
her  feet — the  soaring,  even  motion  of  a  sea-bird. 
She  walked  across  the  Park,  and  I  followed,  praising 
God,  whose  image  she  is.  On  the  further  side 
the  Pole  met  her  in  his  furs,  and  she  walked  with 
him  for  an  hour  in  the  sun.  She  had  no  wrap- 
page to  hide  her  blissful  shape.  Close-fitted,  erect, 
free -moving,  gracious  as  a  young  birch -tree. 
Master,  she  is  the  Holy  One.' 

1  You  played  Peeping  Tom,  my  ingenuous 
young  friend,*  said  Senhouse,  who  was  fastidious 
in  such  matters. 

But  Glyde  cried  out,  ■  God  forbid  !  Are  you 
prying  when  you  look  at  the  sun  !  Master,  you 
need  not  grudge  the  Pole.     He  is  nothing/ 

*  I  grudge  no  man  anything  he  can  get  of  her,' 
said  Senhouse.  *  He  will  get  precisely  what  lies 
within  his  scope.' 

*  He  has  the  eyes  of  a  rat/  Glyde  said. 
Senhouse  answered,  *  Rats  and  men  alike  seek 

their  meat  of  the  earth.  And  the  rats  get  rat- 
food,  and  the  men  man's  food.     Despoina's  breasts 

Q 


226  REST  HARROW  bookih 

are  very  large.'  He  turned  to  his  poem,  folded 
his  jelab  about  his  middle,  and  went  out  over  the 
downs.  Glyde  saw  him  no  more  that  day,  nor, 
indeed,  till  the  next  morning,  when  he  found  him 
squatted  over  a  pipkin  simmering  on  the  fire. 

The  year  went  on  its  course,  and  windy  March 
broke  into  a  wet,  warm  April.  Glyde  sat  at  the 
knees  of  his  master,  and  imbibed  learning  and 
fundamental  morality.  But  now  and  then  he 
absented  himself  for  a  day  at  a  time,  and  was 
understood  to  get  news  from  Salisbury  market. 
He  came  back  one  day  with  a  newspaper.  Sen- 
house  read  without  falter  or  comment : 

1  A  marriage  is  arranged,  and  will  take  place  in 
July,  between  Nevile  Ingram  of  Wanless  Hall, 
Felsboro',  Yorks,  and  Sanchia-Josepha,  youngest 
daughter  of  Thomas  Welbore  Percival  of  —  Great 
Cumberland  Place,  W.,  and  The  Poultry,  E.C 

In  that  night,  or  very  early  in  the  morning, 
Glyde  disappeared  without  word  or  sign  left 
behind  him. 


BOOK   IV 
SANCHIA  IN  LONDON 


227 


I 


London  in  mid-May,  slogging  at  its  pleasures 
under  the  pale  sun,  might  read  one  morning  of  an 
affray  in  Yorkshire,  of  a  magistrate  assaulted,  or 
under-gardener  in  arms,  and  forget  it  in  half-an- 
hour  ;  but  to  Sanchia,  unaccustomed  to  cower, 
some  such  chance  paragraph  seemed  one  spot  the 
more  upon  her  vesture,  which  contact  with  the 
Fulham  Road  had  smirched  already.  She  had 
never  taken  cover  before — and  how  could  one  be 
in  such  a  place  but  to  hide  in  it  ?  With  contracted 
brows  and  bosom  oppressed,  she  watched  the  drift- 
ing millions  go  by,  and  her  heart  sank.  Was  she 
become  as  one  of  these  ?  Is  not  to  be  ashamed  to 
be  shameful  ?  And  had  she  not  been  put  to 
shame  ?  If  she  was  to  hold  up  the  head  and  feel 
the  mouth  of  the  winged  steed  that  she  rode,  she 
must  stable  him  elsewhere. 

She  wished  to  forget  Wanless.  Let  it  be  as  if 
it  was  not,  and  had  never  been.  But  she  found 
that  Glyde  and  his  outrageous  act  made  that  not 
possible.  They  brought  her  down  to  London's 
level — her  in  her  white  robe  out  of  stainless  air  ; 
here  she  was  still,  as  Glyde  had  made  her  there, 
just  a  woman  for  men  to  quarrel  over,  or  a  bone 
for  dogs.     Her  heart  surged  hot  against  Wanless  ; 

229 


230  REST  HARROW  book 

she  could  not,  if  she  would,  forget  it — least  of  all 
in  the  Fulham  Road. 

She  felt  spotted  in  Mrs.  Benson's  spotless 
dwelling — largely  because  it  was  Mrs.  Benson's, 
partly  because  a  smell  of  fried  herrings  drifted  in 
daily  from  the  street.  She  felt  herself  the  chosen 
of  a  servant,  one  for  whom  a  clown  had  held  battle  ; 
and  then  she  found  herself  resenting  the  phrases, 
growing  hot  over  them.  A  servant — Mrs.  Benson, 
that  staunch  protectress  !  A  clown — Struan — his 
thin  frame  throbbing  with  fire,  and  his  eyes  of  a 
hawk  in  a  cage,  far-set,  communing  with  invisible 
things  !  Why,  when  he  was  rapt  in  his  work  he 
never  saw  her  at  all.  She  was  a  speck  at  his  feet ! 
He  had  sent  her  away  once.  c  I'm  busy,'  he  had 
said,  without  looking  at  her  ;  and  she  had  gone 
away  on  tiptoe.  These  things  vexed  her  to  re- 
member, and  she  felt  that  Mrs.  Benson's  dwelling 
could  not  be  hers. 

Mrs.  Benson,  too,  it  must  be  owned,  had  an 
incumbrance,  which  she  kept  as  far  as  might  be  in 
the  lower  regions  of  her  house,  but  which  was  now 
and  again  encountered  on  the  stair — a  shambling 
son,  one  Joe,  mostly  in  shirt-sleeves,  distilling 
familiarity  and  beer  from  every  pore.  He  was  a 
ne'er-do-well,  whom  it  was  his  mother's  cross  and 
crown  to  keep  in  complete  idleness.  He  cast 
dreadful  looks,  as  of  an  equal  in  snugness,  a  fellow- 
minion,  at  the  chiselled  profile  of  our  goddess,  and 
was  not  long  before  he  tried  for  a  full-faced  effect. 
Sanchia's  eyes  of  clear  amaze  should  have  cut  him 
down,  but  they  did  not.  His  *  Morning,  Miss,' 
was   daily   reminder    of  a   shared    clay.     Sanchia 


iv  SANCHIA  IN  LONDON  231 

made     herself    inaccessible,     and     Mrs.     Benson 
agonised. 

To  apologise  for  her  son  had  been  as  futile  as 
to  make  excuses  for  death ;  but  she  tried  it. 
1  You'll  overlook  the  partiality  of  a  mother, 
Miss  Percival  ?  What  am  I  to  do  ?  It's  not 
that  I  want  him  to  lap  syrup  from  a  spoon — far 
from  that.  Idleness  leads  to  impiety,  and  impiety 
anywhere,  from  Tattersall's  to  the  public,  we  all 
know.  But  think  of  what  stings  me.  I  can't 
abide  the  thought  that  here  am  I,  large  Mrs. 
Benson,  with  money  to  spare,  turning  my  back 
upon  my  fatherless  child.  Yet  nothing  short  of 
that  will  do  it.'  Sanchia  readily  excused  her ; 
and  then  she  turned  her  own  back  upon  the 
Fulham  Road.  Pimlico  found  her  a  lodging,  at 
the  gates  of  whose  dingy  mysteries  were  parks 
Westminster,  the  sky  and  the  river,  eternal 
things,  making  for  tranquillity. 

It  had  been  her  first  impulse,  the  moment  she 
reached  London,  to  go  to  her  father,  with  whom 
alone  she  had  corresponded  during  her  years  of 
exile.  There  was  Vicky  Sinclair,  to  be  sure,  her 
sister  next  in  age  ;  but  Vicky  was  married  to  a 
man  she  knew  nothing  of,  and  she  found  herself 
shy.  Fought  for !  Blared  across  London  in  a 
paragraph — championed  by  a  clown  !  How  was 
she  to  meet  a  Captain  Sinclair  ?  Her  father, 
surely,  was  different.  She  never  doubted  his  love, 
nor  that  he  would  take  her  to  his  heart  if  she 
asked  to  go  there.  But  could  she?  It  would 
have  to  be  done  by  stealth  ;  she  must  go  to 
the  city,  to  his  office — for  her  mother  ruled  in 


23 2  REST  HARROW  book 

Great  Cumberland  Place,  and  she  could  not  go 
there.  She  hated  secrets,  and  couldn't  pose  as 
a  culprit ;  so  she  delayed  and  delayed.  It  was 
a  comfort  to  her  to  know  that  he  was  at  hand  : 
meantime,  she  sought  about  for  scope  to  spread 
her  wings. 

For  a  fortnight  she  drank  of  the  gales  of 
liberty,  filled  her  bosom  with  beauty,  and  let  art 
smooth  out  her  brows.  She  listened  to  music, 
looked  at  pictures,  renewed  her  reader's  ticket, 
and  spent  whole  days  browsing  under  the  Blooms- 
bury  dome.  Climbing  the  heights,  she  planned 
out  schemes  of  work,  felt  her  critical  faculties 
renewed,  studied  men  and  women,  and  found  her 
old  pleasure  in  quiet  chuckling  over  their  shifts. 
But  she  had  to  chuckle  alone,  for  she  never  spoke 
to  a  soul.  For  a  fortnight  or  so  all  went  well — 
and  then,  quite  suddenly,  without  any  warning, 
going,  as  it  were,  to  the  fountain  for  water,  she 
found  there  was  no  bottom  to  her  cruse.  She 
went  to  bed  sanguine,  she  awoke  morose.  She 
saw  the  day  with  jaundiced  eyes,  scorned  her- 
self, cried  '  Liver  ! '  and  took  medicine.  She  was 
glued  to  her  books  all  day,  returned  late  to  her 
lodging,  and  found  herself  in  tears.  She  dis- 
covered a  tenderness,  a  yearning  ;  she  lay  awake 
dreaming  of  her  childhood,  of  her  girlhood,  of 
Vicky,  of  her  father's  knee,  of  Senhouse,  her  dear, 
preposterous  friend,  whose  grey  eyes  quizzed  while 
they  loved  her.  Golden  days  with  him — golden 
nights  when  she  dreamed  over  his  eager,  profuse, 
interminable  letters !  All  these  sweet,  seemly 
things  were  dead !     Ah,  no,  not  that,  else  must 


PHILIPPA  233 

she  die.  She  cried  softly,  and  stretched  out  her 
arms  in  the  dark  to  the  gentle  ghosts  that  peopled 
it.  Then,  being  practical  in  grain,  she  jumped 
up,  lit  candles,  and  wrote  deliberately  to  each  of 
her  sisters — finally,  after  much  biting  of  the  pen, 
to  her  father.  Before  her  mood  could  cool  she 
dressed  hastily,  slipped  out,  and  posted  her  letters. 
Coming  back  to  bed,  she  paused  in  the  act  to  enter 
it — one  knee  upon  it.  Wide-eyed  she  wondered 
why  she  had  not  written  to  Senhouse.  To  him, 
of  all  people  in  the  world,  first  of  all !  And  his 
answer — a  certainty.  Hot  came  the  reply  to  her 
question,  and  smote  her  in  the  face.  Never  to 
him  again — never.  There  are  certain  things  no 
woman  can  bring  herself  to  do.  The  more  she 
has  need  of  a  man  the  less  possible  is  it  to  tell  him 
so.  She  sighed  as  she  got  into  her  bed,  and  her 
eyes  were  very  kind. 

Or  the  five  fair  daughters  of  Thomas  Welbore 
Percival,  East  India  Merchant  in  The  Poultry, 
Philippa,  the  eldest,  the  trenchant  and  clear-sighted, 
lived  in  Bryanston  Square,  mother  of  three  children. 
Her  husband,  Mr.  Tompsett-King,  was  a  solicitor, 
but  he  was  much  more  than  that.  An  elderly, 
quiet  gentleman,  who  talked  in  a  whisper,  and 
seemed  to  walk  in  one  too,  he  presided  over  more 
than  one  learned  Society,  and  spoke  at  Congresses 
on  non-controversial  topics.  A  sound  churchman, 
he  deplored  Romish  advance  on  the  one  hand  and 
easy  divorce  on  the  other.  The  salvation  of 
human  society  lay,  he  held,  within  these  limits. 
Distrust  the  emotions  ;  submit  all  things  to  reason 


234  REST  HARROW  book 

— love  of  God,  and  love  of  women.  On  these 
terms  he  prospered  like  his  father  before  him.  It 
all  seemed  very  simple  to  him.  The  handsome 
Philippa  respected  him,  obeyed  him  particularly, 
and  never  differed  from  him  in  opinion.  But  she 
coloured  every  compliance  with  his  decrees  with 
an  idiosyncrasy  so  marked  as  to  make  them  seem 
her  own.  Where  he  held  that  Rome  pandered 
to  the  emotions,  she  laughed  it  to  scorn  as  a 
forcing-house  of  spiritual  foppery  ;  where  he  saw 
in  divorce  a  treason  to  the  law  of  contract,  she 
said  that  it  tempted  women  to  fall.  Is  it  not 
easy  enough  to  sin  ?  Must  we  legalise  it  ?  Why 
put  a  tax  upon  marriage?  Mr.  Tompsett-King 
deprecated  all  dottings  of  iotas  ;  when  Philippa 
stormed  at  society  he  hummed  a  sad  little  tune. 
Before  he  left  for  Bedford  Row  he  patted  her 
shoulder  and  said,  'Gently  does  it.'  Some  such 
scene  must  ensue  upon  the  prodigal's  letter. 

Ha  wise,  Lady  Pin  well,  next  in  age  to  Philippa, 
lived  in  the  country.  Her  husband  was  a  baronet, 
and  a  handsome  blond.  A  pretty,  apple-cheeked, 
round-eyed  girl,  very  much  of  a  kitten,  she  was 
now  grown  plump,  sleek,  rather  slow  to  move, 
and  many  times  a  mother.  She  deferred  to  her 
husband  in  all  things,  and  by  his  wish  received  her 
parents  on  a  formal  visit  once  a  year.  She  saw 
very  little  of  her  sisters,  and  as  for  Sanchia — the 
thing  was  not  to  be  heard  of,  not  even  mentioned 
to  Sir  George.  As,  in  fact,  she  burned  the  child's 
letter  before  she  left  her  bedroom,  she  does  not 
come  into  the  tale  at  all. 


iv  MELUSINE  235 

But  the  pensive  Melusine,  three  years  younger 
than  Philippa,  seven  older  than  Sanchia,  may 
be  reckoned  with.  She  was  also  married,  to  a 
Mr.  Gerald  Scales,  the  son  of  a  baronet.  He 
was  not,  however,  to  inherit  the  title,  for  he  had 
a  brother,  Sir  Matthew,  and  frequent  nephews. 
But  his  means  were  ample  for  his  rank  and  dis- 
creet amusements,  and  went  further  and  did  more 
for  him  than  prolific  Sir  Matthew's  ;  for  Melusine 
gave  him  no  sons.  His  circle  of  being,  in  and 
through  which  trailed  with  charming  languor  his 
wife,  was  of  more  dappled  sheen  and  of  ampler 
circumference  than  that  of  Bryanston  Square. 
Having  its  centre  in  Kensington  Gore,  it  reached 
to  Ranelagh  on  one  side,  to  Maidenhead  on  the 
other.  There  was  a  riverside  villa  down  there, 
where  Mrs.  Scales  gave  parties  in  the  summer- 
time and  was  punted  about  by  flushed  gentlemen 
in  pink  shirts.  She  was  the  tallest  of  the  five 
sisters,  and  the  most  graceful ;  near-sighted  enough 
for  lorgnettes,  an  elegant  young  woman.  She 
had  an  instinct  for  attitudes,  turns  of  the  head, 
which  were  useful  in  tete-h-tete  conversations. 
Mentally,  she  was  not  strong,  and  perhaps  her 
manner  was  too  elaborate  :  she  draped  herself 
when  she  sat  down  as  if  her  skirts  were  window- 
curtains.  Toy  Pomeranians  were  a  hobby  of  hers, 
and  the  early  Florentine  masters.  She  could  read 
off  the  names  of  the  saints  in  a  sacred  conversa- 
tion as  easily  as  you  or  I  a  row  of  actresses  in  a 
photograph  shop.  Mrs.  Jameson's  books  were 
at  her  fingers'  ends.  Her  mother  favoured  her 
more  than  any  of  her  children,  and  was  often  at 


236  REST  HARROW  book 

her  house  on  visits.  Gerald  Scales  called  her  the 
Dowager,  and  pleased  her  vastly.  He  himself 
was  Tubby  to  his  friends. 

Vicky,  a  year  older  than  Sanchia,  had  married 
a  Captain  Sinclair,  who  was  stationed  at  Aldershot. 
She  had  been  the  romp  of  former  days  and,  when 
the  storm  had  burst,  hotly  on  the  culprit's  side. 
But  Vicky  had  been  flighty,  and  marriage  changes 
one.  Sanchia's  eyes  grew  wistful  as  she  sat,  her 
letters  on  the  wing,  and  thought  of  Vicky. 

Her  first  response  was  from  Melusine,  in  a 
telegram  from  Taplow  which  read,  *  Darling, 
alas ! '  and  no  more.  Her  comment  was  shrewd  : 
*  Mamma  is  there ' — and  she  was  right.  Then 
came  her  father's  letter,  to  pluck  at  her  heart- 
strings. He  invited  her  to  The  Poultry  at  '  any 
hour  of  the  day — and  the  sooner  the  better  ; '  but 
was  clear  that  she  could  not  visit  Great  Cumberland 
Place  without  writing  to  Mamma.  *  Doing  the 
civil '  was  his  jocular  way  of  putting  it — one  of 
Papa's  little  ways  when  he  meant  more.  She 
knew  that  he  was  right,  and  postponed  the  fond 
man  and  his  injunction.  His  love  might  be  taken 
for  granted  by  a  favourite  child.  Just  now  it 
was  her  sisters'  judgment  she  craved. 

Philippa  wrote  with  her  accustomed  steel.  It 
might  have  been  a  bayonet :  yet  she  meant  to 
be  kind. 

Bryanston  Square, 
Thursday. 

My  Dear  Sanchia, — I  may  as  well  say  at  once  that 
I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  from  you  ;  in  fact,  I  have 
been   expecting  some  such   letter  as  yours  ever  since  I 


iv  RIGHT  AND  PROPER  237 

read  in  the  Times  of  Claire  Ingram's  death.  Poor  unhappy 
woman,  it  was  time !  Some  of  the  Pierpoints  (the 
Godfrey  P's)  are  intimate  friends  of  ours :  we  dined 
there  last  week  ;  no  party — just  ourselves — and  heard 
all  about  it.  I  learned  that  Mr.  Ingram  had  gone  abroad, 
but  imagine  that  he  will  be  in  London  before  the  end 
of  the  season.  Have  you  written  to  Mamma  ?  If  not, 
pray  do  so.  I  assure  you  that  it  will  be  taken  as  it  is 
meant.  Nothing  but  good  can  come  of  it.  Of  that 
I  am  sure. 

Now,  as  to  your  proposals.  I  think  I  will  ask  you 
to  come  to  me  here.  I  am  very  busy,  with  calls  a  thousand 
ways.  I  really  have  no  afternoons  free  for  as  far  forward 
as  I  can  see — except  Sundays,  which  I  devote  entirely 
to  Tertius  and  religion.  No  woman  ought  to  separate 
the  two — love  of  God,  love  of  husband  in  God.  Sooner 
or  later,  all  women  learn  it.  Then  the  mornings  are 
naturally  occupied  with  the  house  and  the  children. 
They  have  Miss  Meadows  ;  but  she  is  young  and  absurdly 
inconsequent.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  expect  a  girl 
in  her  teens  to  work  miracles.  In  feet,  I  don't  want 
her  to,  and  am  at  hand  to  see  that  she  doesn't. 

I  have  spoken  to  Tertius,  and  you  must  forgive  me 
for  saying  that  we  both  think,  under  the  circumstances, 
it  would  look,  and  be,  better  in  every  way  if  you  came 
here,  in  the  first  instance.  Without  discussing  what  is 
done,  and  (I  pray)  done  with,  you  will  see,  I  think,  that 
for  me  to  seek  you  out  would  be,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
unusual.  You  left  our  father's  house  for  reasons  of  your 
own  ;  I  had  left  it  to  be  married  to  Tertius.  ForgivenesSj 
if  you  wish  it  from  me,  is  yours  :  countenance  of  the  step 
you  took — never.  You  will  not  ask  it.  So  come  here 
any  morning  that  suits  you,  and  I  shall  be  pleased.  You 
will  find  me  ready  to  do  everything  I  can,  to  put  you 
on  your  proper  footing  in  the  sphere  to  which  you  were 
born. — Believe  me,  my  dear  Sanchia,  your  affectionate 
sister,  Philippa  Tompsett-King. 

P.S. — The  Church's  arms  are  very  wide.     One  cannot 


238  REST  HARROW  book 

be  too  thankful,  as  things  have  turned  out,  that  Claire 
Ingram  never  sued  for  divorce.     God  is  most  merciful. 

There  was  some  knitting  of  brows  over  this, 
and  some  chuckling.  Comedy  is  the  Art  of  the 
Chuckle  ;  but  it  is  very  seldom  that  one  of  the 
persons  in  the  play  can  practise  that  which  delights 
us.  Sanchia  was  such  a  person.  She  could  detach 
herself  from  herself,  see  her  own  floutings  and 
thwackings,  and  be  amused.  At  the  same  time 
her  reply  to  Philippa  was  curt. 

'  You,'  she  wrote,  *  are  busy,  and  I  am  not.  I 
will  come  to  you  one  of  these  fine  mornings,  and 
must  trust  to  Miss  Meadows'  sense  of  fitness  not 
to  work  miracles  that  day.' 

A  day  or  two  later  came  a  telegram  from  Vicky 
Sinclair.  'Just  got  your  letter.  Coming  at 
twelve.  Vicky.'  Sanchia  glowed.  'Just  like 
her,  the  darling.'  Philippa's  astringent  proposal 
was  put  aside. 

At  twelve  thirty-five  there  lit  from  a  hansom 
an  eager  and  pretty  little  lady,  all  in  gauzy  tissues 
and  lace  scarf,  who  knocked  at  the  door  like  a 
postman  and  flew  up  the  stair  into  Sanchia's  arms. 
4  Oh,  Sancie,  Sancie,  how  sweet  of  you  to  write  ! 
Now  we  are  all  going  to  be  happy  again  for  ever 
after.  Oh,  and  here's  Cuthbert — I  forgot.'  In 
the  doorway  stood  the  erect  form,  and  smiled  the 
bronzed  face  of  Captain  Sinclair  of  the  Greys.  His 
*  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Sanchia  ! '  was  accompanied 
by  a  look  of  such  curious  enquiry  that  Sanchia 
gave  him  two  fingers,  said,  '  Quite  well,  thank 
you,'  and  no  more.     Much  more  had  been  expected, 


iv  THE  CAPTAIN  WOUNDED        239 

and  the  Captain  was  somewhat  taken  aback.  He 
had  been  ready  to  welcome  the  prodigal  and  admire 
her  too.  What's  more,  he  had  already  very  much 
admired  her.  To  have  one's  generous  motions 
damped  by  a  coolness  of  that  sort  is  sickening. 
But  there  it  was  :  what  could  one  say  ?  what  could 
one  do  ?  He  went  to  the  window  and  stood 
there,  whistling  in  a  whisper  until  his  wife  dismissed 
him.  To  the  Cavalry  Club  stalked  he,  working 
himself  into  virtuous  heat.  There,  at  luncheon 
with  a  friend,  he  expatiated,  which  was  unwise 
and  unmannerly  at  once.  But  his  own  wrongs 
swallowed  up  his  wife's  rights. 

1  I'll  be  damned,  Jack,'  he  took  up  his  parable, 
?  I'll  be  damned  if  ever  I  do  a  woman  a  good  turn 
any  more.  Never,  never  again.  Gel  I  know — 
relative  of  mine  she  is,  by  marriage — goes  a  purler 
with  a  chap.  Knew  something  of  the  chap  too — 
so  did  you,  I  expect.  Not  a  bad  chap,  by  any 
means,  barring  this  sort  of  thing.  Well,  now 
she's  in  town — all  over — settled  down,  y'know. 
Writes  to  my  wife.  Well,  I  thought  it  was  no 
good  bein'  stiff  in  these  things.  Against  the  spirit 
of  the  age — what  ?  So  I  said  we'd  do  the  hand- 
some thing  and  go  up.  We  both  wanted  a  spell 
of  easy — so  it  was  handy.  Besides,  I  wanted  to 
see  the  gel.  I  own  to  that.  And  there's  no  doubt 
she's  a  clinker ;  quiet,  you  know,  and  steady  ;  looks 
right  at  you,  far  in  ;  sees  the  lot  at  a  glance. 
Palish  gel,  not  too  big  ;  but  well  set  up.  Square 
shoulders — deep-chested  gel.  That  sort/  He 
stared  at  the  table-cloth  hard. 

*  I  was  taken  by  her,  mightily  taken.     So  when 


24o  REST  HARROW  bookiv 

she  and  my  wife  had  done  kissin',  I  put  in  my 
little  oar.  "How  d'ye  do,  Miss —  I  won't 
mention  names,  though  upon  my  dick  I  don't 
know  why  I  should  be  squeamish.  But  there  it 
was  ;  and  I'd  have  kissed  her,  as  you  do  kiss  your 
wife's — well,  cousin,  let's  say — if  you  want  to. 
Bless  you,  not  a  bit  of  it.  Proud  as  pepper. 
Gives  me  a  finger.  "  Quite  well,"  says  she. 
"  Quite  well,  thank  you — "  and  drops  me.  Drops 
me  !     Good  Lord  ! ' 

He  drank  deeply  of  beer.  '  Well  now,  I  tell 
you,  that's  the  last  time,  absolutely  the  last  time 
I  do  the  civil  thing  to — well,  to  that  sort,  if  she's 
my  wife's  grandmother.'  He  stared  out  of 
window,  mist  over  his  blue  eyes.  *  They're  all  for 
marrying  her  now.  It  seems  it  can  be  done. 
Chap's  to  be  screwed  up.  Then  she'll  be  patronis- 
ing me,  you'll  see.  Because  I  was  decently  civil — 
that  was  as  far  as  I  was  prepared  to  go  ;  bare 
civility — and  two  fingers  for  it — "  Quite  well, 
thank  you "  !  Oh  damn  it.  Waiter — more 
beer.' 


II 

Vicky  was  enchanting  ;  for  half-an-hour  Sanchia 
was  at  the  top  of  bliss.  To  be  petted  and  diminu- 
tived  by  a  butterfly — it  was  like  that ;  for  though 
the  child  was  a  year  older  than  she,  six  years  of 
marriage  had  made  a  baby  of  her.  Her  audacities 
of  old  had  become  artless  pratde,  her  sallies  were 
skips  in  the  air.  Yet  to  be  purred  over  by  a 
kitten  was  pure  joy.  *  You  darling  !  You  darling 
little  Sancie  !  You  beautiful,  pale,  Madame-de- 
Watteville  kind  of  person  !  Oh,  my  treasure — 
and  I  thought  I  should  never  see  you  again  ! ' 
So  she  cooed  while  she  cuddled,  Sanchia,  for  her 
part,  saying  little,  but  kissing  much.  Her  lips 
were  famished  ;  but  Vicky's  must  be  free  for 
moments  if  her  words  were  to  be  intelligible. 
During  such  times  she  stroked  or  patted  the 
prodigal,  and  let  her  browse  on  her  cheeks. 

By-and-by,  raptures  subsiding,  the  pair  settled 
down  for  talk,  and  the  discrepancies  which  eight 
years  had  made  began  to  show  up,  like  rocks  and 
boulders  in  a  strand  left  bare  by  the  ebb.  Grot- 
esque the  shapes  of  some  of  them,  comical  others  ; 
but  wrecks  and  dead  things  come  to  light  at  low 
water — spectral    matter,    squalid,    rueful    matter. 

241  R 


242  REST  HARROW  book 

And  there  are  chasms  set  yawning,  too,  which  you 
cannot  bridge.     Sanchia  was  to  be  lacerated. 

No  doubt  it  was  laughable  at  first,  as  naivete'  is. 
1  Cuthbert  was  very  funny  about  it ' — for  instance. 
*  He  was  awfully  anxious  to  see  you,  you  know — 
you  had  never  met,  I  think  ? — and  yet  not  quite 
liking  it.  He  said  it  was  a  great  risk  ;  he  seemed 
to  think  I  ought  not  to  be  there.  He  takes  great 
care  of  me,  the  darling.  And  there  was  little 
Dickie,  you  see.  Sancie  !  he  can  just  walk — a 
kind  of  totter  from  my  knees  to  Cuthbert's — and 
then  so  proud  of  himself !  Cuthbert  said  that  my 
duty  was  to  Dickie  ;  but  I  told  him  that  I  meant 
to  come.' 

Yes,  it  was  comical.  'Did  Captain  Sinclair 
think  I  should  give  him  a  complaint  ? '  Sanchia 
was  smiling,  with  eyes  and  mouth  ;  but  the  smile 
was  fixed. 

Vicky  hugged  her.  ■  You  dear  one  !  prettiness 
is  your  complaint.  I  should  like  him  to  have 
some  of  that.*  She  held  her  at  arms'  length, 
looked  and  glowed,  and  kissed.  She  took  a  seri- 
ous tone,  for  the  matter  was  serious.  '  You  know, 
Sancie,  you're  the  only  beauty  in  our  family,  the 
only  real  beauty.  Philippa's  awfully  handsome,  I 
know,  and  greatly  admired — and  I've  always  said 
that  Melot  was  lovely.  There  are  those  three 
sorts  of  women,  you  know.  Philippa's  handsome, 
Melot's  lovely,  and  you're  beautiful.  Then  there's 
prettiness.  I  know  I'm  rather  pretty  :  everybody 
says  so.  Besides,  there's  Cuthbert.  Oh,  you  can 
always  tell !  For  one  thing — he's  so  fussy  about 
my  clothes — you've  no  idea.'    She  preened  herself, 


iv  VICKY'S  PROBING  243 

like  a  pigeon  in  the  sun,  before  she  returned  to 
her  praises.  *  But  you  !  You're  quite  different. 
You're  like  a  goddess.'  She  touched  her  curiously. 
'Yes,  I  thought  so.  Exactly  like  a  goddess.' 
She  sighed.  ■  I  can't  think  how  you  do  it.  Swed- 
ish exercises  ?  I  know  it's  wonderful  what  they 
do  for  you — in  no  time.  But  you  have  to  think 
about  them  all  the  while,  and  I  think  of  Cuthbert 
— and  Dickie — and  the  horses — and,  oh,  all  sorts 
of  things !  Those  sort,  I  mean — nice  things.' 
She  pondered  Sanchia's  godhead,  shaking  her 
pretty  draperies  out,  then  recalled  herself.  '  Oh, 
yes,  about  coming  here.  Of  course  I  knew  that 
Mamma  would  make  a  fuss — but  I  had  deter- 
mined long  ago,  before  I  dreamed  that  it  would 
ever  happen,  not  to  tell  her  a  word.  It  was  only 
Cuthbert  who  made  me  feel — well,  serious.  He  is 
so  wise,  such  a  man  of  the  world !  But  I  told 
him  that  I  meant  to  come  whatever  he  could  say 
— and  afterwards  it  turned  out  that  he  wanted  to 
come  too.  He  was  really  quite  keen.  Wasn't 
that  sweet  of  him  ?  You  would  adore  Cuthbert  if 
you  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do.  But,  of  course, 
that's  absurd.'  She  suddenly  became  intense. 
1  Sancie  ! '  she  said,  then  stopped  and  peered. 

'  Yes  ? '  It  was  a  sobered  goddess  who  waited 
for  close  quarters.  Vicky  put  her  question,  but 
peered  no  more. 

4 1  wish  you  would  tell  me  one  thing,  which — 
has  always  puzzled  me.  But  don't,  if  you  would 
rather  not.  How  did  you — I  simply  can't  under- 
stand it — how  did  you  ever — ?  I  suppose  you 
loved  him  very  much  ? ' 


244  REST  HARROW  book 

Sanchia  was  in  a  hard  stare,  'Yes,'  she  said 
slowly,  *  I  suppose  I  did/  Vicky's  head  darted 
back. 

'  Ah  !  But  now  you  don't  a  bit.  I  knew  you 
didn't  !  Sancie,  that's  what  I  can't  understand. 
Because,  you  know,  when  you're  married  you  do. 
You  always  love  the  same  person.  You  must — 
you  can't  help  it.  He's  so  natural  ;  he  knows 
things  that  you  know.  He  knows — everything. 
Oh,  Sancie,  I  can't  talk  about  it,  but  you  under- 
stand, don't  you  ? ' 

Poor  Sanchia  nodded,  not  able  to  look  up. 
Alas  for  her  secrets,  offered,  taken,  and  forgotten ! 
But  Vicky's  vivacious  fingers  groped  in  her  empty 
cupboard.  '  And  then,  as  well  as  that,  you  ought 
to  love  him.  You  see,  you've  promised  ;  it's  all 
been  made  so  sacred.  You  never  forget  it — the 
clergyman,  and  the  altar,  and  the  hymns.  You're 
all  in  white — veiled.  And  you  kneel  there — 
before  the  altar — and  he  holds  your  hand.  And 
the  ring — oh,  Sancie,  the  feeling  of  the  ring  !  ' 
She  opened  her  little  hand  and  looked  down  at  the 
smoothed  gold,  coiled  below  the  diamonds  and 
pearls.  '  You  never  forget  the  first  feel  of  that. 
It  means — everything  !  '  She  blushed,  and  said, 
in  a  hushed  sort  of  way,  *  It  meant — Dickie,  to 
me.' 

Sanchia  drooped  and  bled.  Vicky,  deep  in  her 
holy  joys,  was  remorseless.  Even  when  she  turned 
once  more  to  her  sister's  affairs  her  consolation 
made  wounds. 

*  Cuthbert  said  that  it  would  come  all  right 
now — now  that   Mrs.   Ingram— the  wife — was — 


SHE  CUTS  DEEP  245 

That's  rather  horrible.  Even  you  must  feel  that. 
Instead  of  being  sorry  that  his  wife  is  dead,  one 
has  to  be  awfully  glad.  I  suppose  you  felt  that 
at  once  ;  and  of  course  he  did.  Poor  woman  !  I 
wonder  if  she  was  buried  in  her  ring/  She  eyed 
her  own.  '  No  one  would  dare  to  take  it  off.  I 
made  Cuthbert  promise  me  this  morning.  But — 
of  course  people  do  marry  again,  and  it  will  be 
practically  the  same  as  that.*  She  reflected.  '  Yes, 
practically,  it  will,  but — oh,  it's  very  extraordinary ! 
You've  had  all  your  fun  of  engagement  and  all 
that,  long  ago.'  She  looked  down  deeply  at  her 
hand  ;  and  then  she  gazed  at  her  sister.  '  And, 
oh,  Sancie,  you've  had  your  honeymoon  ! '  Before 
the  deadly  simplicity  of  that  last  stroke  Sanchia 
fell,  and  lay  quivering.  She  could  not  ask  for 
mercy,  she  could  explain,  extenuate,  nothing. 
Huddled  she  lay.  At  this  aching  moment  the  one 
thing  that  the  world  held  worth  her  having  seemed 
to  be  the  approbation  of  this  butterfly  child.  For 
Vicky's  happiness  was  specific.  Nuptial  bliss  lay, 
as  it  were,  crystallised  within  it.  There  are 
moments  in  one's  life  when  love  itself  seems  lust, 
and  safety  the  only  holy  thing.  Vicky,  tearing  at 
her  heart,  had  turned  her  head. 

Vicky  once  gone,  with  promise  of  frequent 
intercourse  by  letter  and  otherwise,  it  was  to 
Philippa's  fine  house  and  respectable  man-servant 
she  next  surrendered  herself.  The  meeting  was 
cool,  but  not  intolerable  to  a  goddess  sore  from 
Vicky's  whip.  Philippa  could  ply  a  longer  lash, 
but  not  by  the  same  right,   nor  with  the  same 


246  REST  HARROW  book 

passion  to  drive  it  home.  Sanchia's  eyes  met  hers 
upon  the  level ;  and  if  the  elder  had  a  firmly 
modelled  chin,  so  had  the  younger  sister.  Her 
strength,  too,  lay,  as  it  always  had,  in  saying 
little,  whereas  Philippa's  forte  was  dialogue.  But 
it  needs  two  for  that.  After  the  first  greeting 
there  came  a  pause,  in  which  the  embarrassment, 
upon  the  whole,  was  Mrs.  Tompsett-King's. 

The  trenchant  lady  had  had  her  sailing  orders, 
and  was  going  to  follow  them.  Mr.  Tompsett- 
King  had  told  her  that  Sanchia  must  be  led,  not 
driven,  into  Ingram's  arms.  '  Assume  the  best  of 
her,  my  dear  friend,'  he  had  said,  *  if  you  wish  to 
get  the  best  out  of  her.  Take  right  intentions  for 
granted.  It  is  very  seldom  that  a  woman  can 
resist  that  kind  of  flattery.  So  far  as  I  can  read 
your  sister's  mind,  she  has  suffered  from  your 
mother's  abrupt  methods.  I  beg  of  you  not  to 
repeat  them.  Nothing  but  mischief  could  come 
of  it.'  When  Mr.  Tompsett-King  called  her  his 
dear  friend,  she  knew  that  he  was  serious. 

But  Sanchia's  mood  had  not  been  reckoned 
with  :  Philippa  was  not  Vicky.  In  the  old  days, 
in  a  wonderfully  harmonious  household,  there  had 
been  a  latent  rivalry  between  her  and  all  her 
juniors.  The  greatest  trouble  had  been  with 
Sanchia,  the  deliberate.  And  so  it  was  now  that 
when  the  elder  warmed  to  her  task  of  making  bad 
best,  she  was  suddenly  chilled  by  that  old  ponder- 
ing and  weighing  which  had  always  offended  her. 
Sanchia  replied  to  her  assumptions  and  suppositions 
by  saying  simply  that  she  didn't  know  where  Mr. 
Ingram  was,  and  that  he  was  no  better  informed  of 


iv  PHILIPPA'S  ALARM  247 

her  than  she  of  him.  But  surely — Philippa  raised 
her  brows — but  surely  she  knew  when  he  was 
coming  to  London  ?  Sanchia's  head-shake  shocked 
her.  There  was  but  one  conclusion  to  be  drawn 
from  it. 

1  There's  been  a  quarrel,'  then  said  she. 

1  No,'  Sanchia  answered — as  if  thinking  it  out — 
1  No,  I  shouldn't  say  that.  I  should  say,  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion.' 

*  My  dear,'  said  Philippa — and  the  phrase  with 
her  was  one  of  reproof — *  On  essentials  there  can 
have  been  none.  He  will  wait  a  year,  of  course. 
Under  the  circumstances,  a  full  year.     But — ' 

Sanchia  had  replied,  '  I  don't  know  what  he 
means  to  do.     I  have  left  Wanless.' 

'  Oh,  of  course,  of  course.  But — I  was  going 
to  say — I  fully  expect  that  he  has  written  to 
Mamma.'  Sanchia's  eyebrows  and  her,  ■  I  should 
think  that  unlikely.  Why  should  he  write  to 
Mamma  ? '  frightened  Philippa,  while  to  Mr. 
Tompsett-King's  mind  they  were  clear  gain.  It 
was  necessary,  after  it,  to  get  on  to  surer  ground. 
The  interview  terminated  by  an  understanding 
that  Sanchia  should  write  to  her  mother. 

Philippa  took  her  husband  to  dine  in  Great 
Cumberland  Place  that  night ;  and  there,  he  with 
Mr.  Percival,  she  with  the  lady,  obtained  the  terms 
of  a  settlement.  Sanchia  was  to  be  allowed  a 
hundred  a  year — for  the  present.  (Mr.  Percival 
intended  privately  to  make  it  two.)  Everything 
was  to  be  assumed  in  her  favour  ;  but  she  was 
not  to  be  asked  to  meet  company.     Neither  Mrs. 


248  REST  HARROW  book 

Percival  nor  Philippa  could  be  brought  to  that, 
and  Mr.  Percival,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  had 
no  desire  for  any  sort  of  company  but  hers.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  made  rosy-gilled  for  happi- 
ness. Good  fellowship,  the  domestic  affections — 
if  they  were  not  there,  they  must  appear  to  be. 
His  friends  of  the  city  were  always  on  his  lips — 
Old  Tom  Peters — Old  Jack  Summers — Old  Bob — 
Old  Dick.  Good  fellows  every  one.  All  the  pet 
names  in  the  family  had  been  his.  To  him  be- 
longed Pippa  and  Sancie,  Melot  and  Vicky.  '  My 
girls/  or  *  My  rascals,'  he  used  to  call  them  to 
Tom  Peters  or  Jack  Summers,  and  bring  them 
home  jerky  little  tin  pedestrians  from  the  city,  or 
emus  pulling  little  carts  ;  or  (later  on)  bowls  of 
goldfish  or  violet  nosegays  from  Covent  Garden. 
If  he  had  a  nearer  passion,  it  was  to  stand  well 
with  all  the  world.  That's  two  passions,  however, 
to  his  score;  and  the  struggle  between  them,  in 
Sanchia's  case,  had  taken  him  as  near  tragedy  as 
the  easy  man  could  go.  Heaven  be  praised,  the 
good  times  were  come  again.  Now  he  was  all  for 
the  return  of  the  prodigal,  without  conditions — 
'  and  no  questions  asked,'  as  he  put  it. 

But  in  this  he  could  not  get  his  dear  desire. 
Philippa's  sense  of  justice  was  inflamed,  as  well  as 
her  moral  sense.  What !  you  eat  a  cake,  and  then, 
instead  of  sitting  down  to  your  plain  bread  and 
butter — away  you  flounce,  and  get  ready  to  eat 
another  cake !  That's  dead  against  the  proverb, 
that's  monstrous,  that's  offensive.  '  Mamma, 
mamma,'  Philippa  had  protested,  *  you  can  never 
have  her  back  to  flourish  her  sin  in  all  our  faces.' 


rv  MAMMA  249 

•  Thank  you,  Philippa,  for  reminding  me,  how- 
ever gratuitously,  of  my  duties  to  society,'  had 
been  Mrs.  Percival's  acknowledgment.  She  liked 
sin  as  little  as  Philippa,  but  she  liked  being  lectured 
a  great  deal  less.  Poor  Mr.  Percival  had  pulled 
his  whiskers  throughout  the  debate,  and  now  sighed 
as  he  bit  them.  His  girl  was  to  be  denied  him — 
but  he  could  give  her  two  hundred  a  year,  and  go 
to  see  her  often.     That  was  comfort. 

And  then  the  meeting  took  place.  First  with 
Mamma,  who  had  never  liked  her,  and  was  now 
a  little  afraid  of  what  she  might  do.  For  Philippa 
had  made  it  quite  plain  that  if  Sanchia  was  not 
humoured,  she  would  have  nothing  to  say  to 
Ingram.  ■  She's  exhausted  her  criminal  passion — 
that's  what  it  comes  to,'  was  Philippa's  judgment. 
*  Now  she  will  have  to  be  cajoled.'  So  Mrs. 
Percival  was  cowed  into  civility. 

The  pair  conversed,  rather  painfully,  for  perhaps 
an  hour.  They  had  tea.  All  the  effort  to  talk 
was  made  by  Sanchia,  who  broached  the  children — 
Philippa's  three,  Vicky's  one — and  got  nothing  but 
perfunctory  enthusiasm  in  reply.  Mrs.  Percival 
was  far  too  sincerely  interested  in  herself  to  care 
for  children.  The  sons-in-law  proved  a  better 
subject.  Here  she  could  point  a  moral  inwards. 
She  extolled  them  highly — never  was  woman  so 
blessed  in  her  daughters'  husbands.  Mr.  Tompsett- 
King — *  Tertius,  the  soul  of  honour  :  the  most 
delicate-minded  man  I  have  ever  known.  And 
sensitive  to  a  fault !  I  assure  you — '  Captain 
Sinclair  was  *  our  gallant  Cuthbert,'  or  *  my  soldier 


250  REST  HARROW  book 

son.'  '  Sweet  little  Vicky's  knight !  chivalry  lives 
again  in  him.  It  has  been  the  greatest  blessing  in 
my  days  of  trouble  to  be  sure  of  the  ideal  happiness 
of  those  two  young  lives.  Ah !  one  does  have 
one's  consolations.' 

Such  eulogium  seemed  to  leave  little  to  be  said 
for  Melusine  and  her  prize ;  and  yet  it  was  certain 
that  Mrs.  Percival  favoured  Gerald  Scales  above 
the  others.  A  lift  of  the  voice  was  observable — 
*  Gerald,  who,  naturally,  is  quite  at  home  at  Marl- 
borough House  .  .  .'  *  Gerald,  with  that  charming 
old-world  courtesy  of  his  .  .  .'  *  Dear  Lady  Scales 
told  me  that  of  her  two  sons,  Gerald  should  have 
been  the  baronet.  Poor  Sir  Matthew  suffers  from 
hay- fever  to  that  extent.  .  .  .  But  Gerald  is  a 
splendid  young  man.  Darling  Melot  is,  I  need  not 
tell  you,  fully  appreciated  at  Winkley.'  This  was 
the  seat  of  Sir  Matthew,  in  Essex. 

Sanchia,  for  her  part,  having  regained  the  throne 
of  her  serenity — from  which  Vicky  had  toppled 
her  of  late — by  means  of  Philippa,  was  able  to 
contemplate  this  singular  parent  of  hers  with  the 
interest  due  to  a  curious  object,  and  some  internal 
amusement.  She  was  too  far  removed  from  her 
to  be  moved,  too  much  estranged  to  be  hurt.  She 
wondered  at  herself  for  feeling  so  little  of  what, 
in  the  days  of  babyhood,  she  had  firmly  held  to  be 
the  devout  opinion.  She  found  that,  from  a  child, 
she  had  always  judged  her  mother,  and  was  sure 
now  that  her  mother  knew  it.  She  remembered 
how  hopeless  she  had  always  known  it  to  be, 
to  explain  any  attitude  of  mind  she  may  have  ex- 
hibited and  been  blamed  for.     So  now,  though  it 


iv  PAPA  251 

was  abundantly  clear  to  her  what  was  hoped  of 
her,  and  though  she  could  see  perfectly  well  that 
the  chance  of  her  doing  it  was  so  risky  that  she 
must  be  handled  like  a  heavy  fish  on  a  light  line, 
she  made  no  effort  whatever  to  show  why  what 
was  to  be  hoped  for  was  absurdly  impossible.  She 
watched  her  mother  sail  about  it  and  about  in  ever 
narrowing  circles,  heard  herself  commended  for  her 
promptitude  in  leaving  Wanless,  answered  enquiries 
as  to  Ingram's  behaviour  under  what  Mrs.  Percival 
otiosely  called  *  his  bereavement/  echoed  specula- 
tions as  to  his  whereabouts — played,  in  short, 
vacantly  an  empty  part,  and  kept  her  mother  upon 
tenterhooks.     She  gained  civil  entreaty  this  way. 

But  her  father's  bustling  entry  changed  all  this. 
She  had  not  known  of  herself  how  susceptible  she 
still  was.  Vicky  had  made  her  cower ;  but  her 
father  made  her  cry. 

He  affected  a  bluff  ease  in  his  manner  of 
greeting  her.  c  Well,  Sancie,  well,  my  dear,  well, 
well ' — and  then  he  cleared  his  throat ;  but  he  did 
not  dare  to  look  at  her.  Sancie  answered  him  by 
jumping  into  his  arms,  and  upset  him  altogether. 

*  Oh,  my  girl,  my  girl — my  little  Sancie — '  and 
then  the  pair  of  them  mingled  tears,  while  Mrs. 
Percival,  who  thought  this  exhibition  out  of  place 

*  under  the  circumstances,'  and  not  in  the  best 
possible  taste,  tapped  her  foot  on  the  carpet,  and 
wished  that  Philippa  had  been  here. 

But,  once  they  were  beyond  a  certain  floodmark, 
as  she  knew  by  long  acquaintance,  Mr.  Percival's 
emotions  must  be  given  play.  She  retired,  there- 
fore, and  left  the  clinging  pair.     Directly  she  was 


252  REST  HARROW  book 

gone,  the  good  gentleman's  embrace  of  his  child 
grew  straiter,  and  his  kisses  of  her  brows  and  hair 
more  ardent.  He  humbled  himself  before  her, 
thanked  her  for  coming  back  to  him.  '  My 
darling,  it  was  fine  of  you  to  come  !  Ton  my 
soul,  it  was  fine !  • 

*  No,  darling,  no/  she  protested,  smiling  sadly 
at  his  fondness. 

' 1  always  loved  you,  my  child  !  My  Sancie — 
you  know  that  of  your  old  father,  hey  ? '  He 
pinched  her  cheek  before  he  kissed  it  again.  *  Ton 
my  life,  it  cut  me  down  like  a  frost  to  do — what 
was  done.* 

'  I  know,  I  know,'  Sanchia  murmured,  and  then 
begged  him  not  to  speak  of  it. 

*  Ah,  but  I  must,  you  know/  he  vowed. 
*  What !  A  damned  unnatural  father !  .  .  .  ' 
And  then  he  held  her  closely,  while  he  whispered 
his  anxiety.  '  Sancie — tell  me,  my  lamb — put  my 
mind  at  rest.  He — that  fellow — that  Ingram — 
he  was  good  to  you,  hey  ?     He  didn't — hey  ? ' 

She  vowed  in  her  turn.  '  Oh,  yes,  dearest,  yes. 
Of  course  he  was.  I  was  very  happy,  except  for 
— what  couldn't  be  helped,  you  know/ 

*  Yes,  yes — it  couldn't  be  helped.  I  know  that 
you  felt  that.  I  was  bound — for  the  others,  don't 
you  see  ? — sake  of  example.  That  sort  of  thing, 
don't  you  see  ? '  He  shook  his  head,  *  We  can't 
have  that,  you  know.  It  don't  do — in  the  long 
run.  Very  irregular,  hey  ?  And  your  mother, 
you  know — she  takes  these  things  to  heart.  Goes 
too  far,  /  say.  Sometimes  goes  a  little  to  extremes, 
you  know.'     He  grew  quite  scared  as  he  recalled 


iv  INFALLIBLE  REMEDY  253 

the  scene.  *  I  shall  never  forget1 — shuddering,  he 
clasped  her  close.  *  My  darling  girl,  let's  be 
happy  again  !  It  shall  be  right  as — well,  as  rain, 
you  know — now.  We'll  have  you  with  a  child 
on  your  knee  in  no  time, — hey  ?  -  He  seemed  to 
think  that  marriage  alone  could  work  this  boon. 
Again — as  before  with  Vicky — Sanchia  had  not 
the  heart  to  gainsay  him.  She  allowed  him  to 
speculate  as  he  would  ;  and  her  mother,  returning, 
found  the  pair,  one  on  the  other's  knee,  with  the 
future  cut  and  dried. 

But  Sanchia  rose  at  her  entry. 

*  Dearest,  I  must  go  now,'  she  told  him,  *  but 
I'll  see  you  again  very  soon.' 

He  urged  her  to  stay  and  dine.  ■  We're  quite 
alone,  you  know.  No  ceremony  with  our  child, 
hey!' 

But  she  smilingly  refused.  '  No,  darling,  I 
won't  stop  now.  I'll  come  again — '  her  mother's 
stretched  lips,  stomaching  what  she  could  not 
sanction,  stood,  as  it  were,  before  the  home  doors. 

He  looked  wistfully  at  her — aware,  he  too,  of 
the  sentries  at  the  gate.  'You  might — we  are 
pretty  lonely  here,  we  old  people — I  should  have 
said  you  might  come  back — there's  your  old  room, 
you  know — eating  its  head  off,  hey  ? ' 

Sanchia  kissed  him.  ■  Darling — we'll  see. 
We'll  talk  about  it  soon.  But  I  must  go  now — 
to  my  books.  I'm  working  very  hard,  at  my 
Italian.     I've  forgotten — lots.' 

He  had  to  let  her  go — but,  manlike,  he  must 
relieve  himself  in  a  man's  way.  He  drew  her 
into  his  study,  bade  her  ■  see  what  she  should  see.' 


254  REST  HARROW  book 

He  went  to  his  desk  and  sat  to  his  cheque-book. 
He    returned    with    the    slip    wet    in    his    hand. 

*  There,  my  child,  there.  That  will  keep  the 
wolf  from  the  door,  I  hope.  For  a  day  or  two, 
you  know/  She  read,  c  Miss  Sanchia  Percival — 
two  hundred  pounds  sterling.'  It  brought  the 
tears  to  her  eyes  again.     It  was  so  exactly  like  him. 

'  You  darling — how  ridiculous  of  you — but  how 
sweet !  ' 

He  glowed  under  her  praises.  ■  Plenty  more 
where  that  came  from,  Sancie,' — then  piously 
added,  '  Thank  God,  of  course.' 

Sanchia,  in    the    hall,  turned    to    her    mother. 

*  Good-bye,  mother,'  she  said,  and  held  her  hand 
out.  Her  mother  took  it,  drew  her  in,  and 
kissed  her  forehead.  c Good-bye,  my  child';  she 
could  not,  for  her  life,  be  more  cordial  than  that. 
The  offence  itself  seemed  a  pinprick  beside  the 
rankle  of  the  wound  to  her  pride.  This  child  had 
set  up  for  herself,  and  was  now  returned — without 
extenuation,  without  plea  for  mercy.  Mrs.  Percival 
was  one  of  those  people  who  cannot  be  happy  unless 
their  right  to  rule  be  unquestioned.  Had  the 
girl  humbled  herself  to  the  dust,  grovelled  at  her 
feet,  she  would  have  taken  her  to  her  breast.  But 
Sanchia  stood  upright,  and  Mrs.  Percival  felt  the 
frost  gripe  at  her  heart.     It  must  be  so. 

Her  father  went  with  her  to  the  door — his  arm 
about  her  waist.  '  Come  soon,'  he  pleaded,  and 
when  she  promised,  whispered  in  her  ear — '  Come 
to  The  Poultry,  if  you'd  rather  :  I'm  always  there 
— as  you  know.  Come,  and  we'll  lunch  together. 
You'll  be  like  a  nosegay  in  the  dusty  old  place.' 


rr  PAPA  BRAVES  IT  255 

*  Yes,  yes,  I  shall  come — often/  she  told  him, 
and  nestled  to  his  side.  Then  she  put  up  her 
cheek  for  his  kiss.  'Good-night,  Papa  dear/ 
He  wept  over  her,  and  let  her  go.  Then  he 
returned  to  his  hearth  and  his  wife.  In  his  now 
exalted  mood  he  was  really  master  of  both,  and 
Mrs.  Percival  knew  it.  'You  gave  her  the 
money,  I  suppose  ? '  she  said  ;  and  he,  '  Yes,  my 
dear.  I  gave  her  two  hundred  pounds.'  He  had 
doubled  the  sum  agreed,  but  Mrs.  Percival  let  it 
pass. 


Ill 


Upon  this  footing  her  affairs  now  stood  ;  she  was 
to  be  one  of  the  family,  with  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year  to  her  credit,  the  run  of  her  teeth  in  the 
house,  and  (by  a  secret  arrangement)  as  often  in 
her  father's  company  as  she  could  find  time  to  be. 
Meantime,  by  her  own  deliberate  choice,  she 
maintained  her  lodging  in  Pimlico,  and  read  at 
the  Museum  most  days  of  the  week.  She 
prepared  herself  to  be  happy,  and  under  a  buoyant 
impulse,  due  to  the  softening  of  her  affections, 
wrote  to  her  friend  Mr.  Chevenix,  and  asked  him 
to  come  to  see  her.     That  he  briskly  did. 

She  received  him  cordially.  It  was  good  to 
see  the  cheerful  youth  again,  and  to  be  able  to 
rejoice  in  the  man  of  the  world  he  affected  to  be. 
A  man  of  the  world — throned,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  brows  of  a  suckling. 

Wisdom  was  justified  of  her  child.  cSo  you 
cut  it  ?  Thought  you  would.  Wanless  Hall  is 
all  very  well  in  its  little  way — when  the  rainbows 
are  jumping,  what  ?  D'you  remember  that  fish  ? 
And  old  Devereux — Salmo  devcrox  ?  My  certy, 
what  a  lady  !  But  Nevile — '  he  shook  his  head. 
*  No,  no.  Some  devil  had  entered  into  him  :  he 
was  a  gloomy  kind  of  tyrant.     I  don't  know,  by 

256 


book  iv  CHEVENIX'S  AUNT  257 

the  way,  what's  happened  to  him.  Travelling,  or 
something,  I  fancy.  He  was  always  a  rolling 
stone,  as  you  know.  But  he'll  come  round,  you'll 
see.  Oh,  Lord,  yes.  He'll  sulk  out  his  devil — 
and  be  the  first  to  apologise.  Well — never  mind 
old  Nevile.  You'll  see,  one  of  these  days.  Now, 
I  say,  what  are  you  doing  with  yourself  up  here  ? 
Any  good  ? ' 

She  named  her  Italian  studies,  and  made  him 
open  his  eyes. 

i  Italian  ?  Tante  grazie,  and  all  that !  But 
that  don't  take  you  very  far,  you  know.  Your 
teeth  will  crack  a  tougher  nut.  Now,  I'll  tell 
you  what  you  do.  You  come  and  see  my  old 
Aunt  Wenman — ' 

She  was  highly  amused.  *  Why  should  I  see 
your  old  Aunt  Wenman  ?  Does  she  know 
Italian  ? ' 

*  Italian  !  God  bless  you,  if  she  knows  English, 
it's#as  much  as  she  does.  Learnt  the  Catechism 
once,  I  s'pose.  She's  a  good  old  sort — Lady 
Maria  Wenman,  widow  of  my  old  Uncle  Charles, 
and  my  mother's  sister  at  that.  She'll  take  to  you 
— she'll  take  to  you.' 

1 1  don't  see — '  said  Sanchia,  puzzled.  The 
youth  explained. 

'Well,  you  see — you'll  forgive  me,  I  know — 
it's  tone  you  want  just  now.  She'll  give  you  that. 
She's  something  to  pull  against.  You  get  your 
back  up  against  her,  and  hang  on.  That's  the 
ticket.  She's  a  good  soul,  is  Aunt  Maria — lots  of 
tone — gives  parties  to  all  and  sundry.  You  meet 
some    rare    fish    in    those    waters — Jews,    Turks, 

s 


258  REST  HARROW  book 

infidels,  and  heretics.  They'll  amuse  you — give 
you  bones  to  pick.  I  don't  get  on  with  'em  my- 
self— too  simple,  I  am,  you  know.  They  talk 
their  politics,  or  domestic  afflictions,  and  I  feel  so 
delicate  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  There  was  one 
chap,  I  remember — Golowicz  his  name  was — big, 
red-whiskered,  conspiracy  chap  .  .  .  told  me  all 
about  his  mother — tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 
I  didn't  know  her  from  Adam,  you  know,  but 
still — Oh,  you'll  like  Aunt  Wenman.  She'll 
want  you  to  live  with  her,  and  you  might  do 
much  worse.'  Sanchia  listened,  smiled,  and 
pondered.  It  was  not  her  way  to  be  disposed  of 
so  simply.' 

What  was  impressive  to  her  about  this  con- 
versation was  the  real  reticence  underlying  the 
chatter  of  her  friend.  She  could  feel  his  convic- 
tion of  her  want  of  tone  ;  she  was  convinced  of  it 
herself.  Her  purpose  in  life  seemed  gone.  Once 
it  had  been  love,  next  it  had  been  the  ordering  of 
affairs.  The  second  had  been  so  absorbing  that 
she  had  not  missed  the  first ;  indeed,  she  had 
believed  it  there  until  the  very  end,  when  she  had 
called  it  up,  and  had  no  answer.  But  now — what 
aim  had  she,  in  this  lonely,  empty  life  she  was 
leading,  whose  hours  were  so  many  that  she  had 
to  fill  them  up  with  Italian  got  out  of  books  ? 
Without  knowing  it,  it  was  life  she  wanted,  not 
books.  She  with  her  brains,  vitality,  beauty,  and 
charm  had  been  growing  in  these  graces  unawares, 
flowering  in  secret  at  Wanless  under  her  aprons, 
behind   her   account -books    and    garden   gloves. 


iv  WORLDLY  WISDOM  259 

Now  that  all  these  swaddling  bands  were  stripped 
off  her,  behold  her,  armed  at  all  points  for  the 
lists.  So  Chevenix  had  beheld  her,  it  seems.  Let 
her  see  the  world,  approve  her  mettle,  run  her 
career.  Chevenix,  watching  her,  judged  in  those 
pondering  eyes,  in  that  half-smile  which  had 
charmed  him  before,  a  kind  of  quivering  expect- 
ancy new  to  her.  He  judged  her  tempted,  and 
renewed  his  suggestions  on  a  later  day. 

'What  you  want/  he  then  told  her,  ■  is  to  try  a  fall 
or  two  with  the  world.  You've  been  too  snug,  you 
know — too  long  under  glass.  You  left  the  school- 
room to  go  to  Wanless — and  where  were  you 
there  ?  Under  cover.  You  want  the  sun,  the 
wind,  and  the  rain  ;  you  want  to  know  what  these 
things  feel  like — and  how  the  rest  of  us  take  'em. 
And  you  want  to  be  seen,  if  you'll  let  me  say  that. 
We  all  like  being  looked  at,  I  believe.  I  know 
that  I  do,  when  I'm  quite  sure  about  my  hat. 
Now  you  won't  get  much  of  that  in  a  Warwick 
Street  two-pair  front,  let  me  tell  you — no,  nor  in 
your  B.  17,  or  whatever  your  seat  is,  at  the 
Museum.  You're  a  star — you're  to  shine.  Well, 
give  'em  a  turn  in  Charles  Street.  I'll  fix  it  up 
for  you.     I  wish  you'd  think  it  over.' 

She  gave  him  grateful  looks,  but  said  little. 
Nevertheless,  he  went  away  encouraged.  A  week 
or  so  later,  she  found  a  card  upon  her  table  :  that 
of  a  Mrs.  John  Chevenix. 

'  That's  my  sister-in-law,'  the  friendly  youth 
presently  told  her.  }  That's  Mrs.  John.  You  go 
and  see  her.  She's  a  good  sort  of  woman.  You'll 
meet  Aunt  Wenman  there.     I  thought  it  all  out, 


260  REST  HARROW  book 

and  that's  the  way  to  get  at  it.  She'll  jump  at 
you,  in  my  opinion.  She  loves  orphans.  Collects 
'em.     You  go  ! ' 

She  was  due  in  the  city  on  a  visit  to  her  father, 
was,  in  fact,  dressed  for  it  in  her  best  white  frock, 
roses  in  her  hat.  She  promised  to  think  of  it — 
and  of  course  would  return  Mrs.  John's  call. 
The  amiable  Chevenix  accompanied  her  as  far  east- 
ward as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  go.  He  went, 
indeed,  farther,  and  in  full  view  of  Saint  Paul's 
decided  upon  a  visit  to  that  sanctuary.  You 
never  know  your  luck,  he  said.  He  might  meet 
Senhouse  there.  He  had  been  hunting  the  recessed 
philosopher  high  and  low. 

'  Great  sport  if  we  met  him  now — you,  who 
look  like  lunching  at  the  Savoy  or  somewhere, 
and  he  like  a  fakir  !  What  should  you  do  ?  Fall 
in  his  arms  ? '     Sanchia  had  mist  over  the  eyes. 

*  I  believe  I  should,'  she  admitted.  *  I  should 
love  to  see  him  again.' 

'  He'll  turn  up  at  Aunt  Wenman's,  I'll  bet  you,' 
Chevenix  felt  sure,  f  She  rakes  'em  in — all  sorts. 
Do  think  about  her,  now,  there's  a  dear.  You 
won't  be  able  to  stick  it  at  home,  you  know.' 

1  I'm  sure  that  I  shan't  go  home,'  Sanchia  said. 
4  And  I  am  thinking  about  your  aunt.' 

*  Right,'  cried  Chevenix,  and  briskly  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  cathedral. 

Mr.  Percival  had  provided  a  tea  for  her  which 
had  the  appearance  of  a  banquet.  The  table 
seemed  sunk  in  flowers  ;  a  great  urn  held  the  tea. 
There  were  buns  in  pyramids,  snow-mantled  cakes, 


IV 


PAPA  AT  TEA  261 


apricot  jam,  strawberries,  clotted  cream.  Nothing 
was  too  good  for  his  beloved,  as  he  cried  aloud 
when  he  saw  her,  fresh  and  glowing  in  her  lace 
frock  and  flower-wreathed  hat. 

1  My  girl — and  upon  my  soul,  a  picture  ! ' 

She  blushed  at  his  praises,  and  came  within  kiss- 
ing distance.  *  You  make  a  school-treat  of  me, 
dearest.  You  mustn't  be  wicked  with  your  money, 
or  I  shan't  come  any  more  to  see  you.  I  won't  be 
spoiled.' 

4  No,  my  dear,  no — and  you  can't  be/  he 
assured  her.  *  Good  Lord,  my  child,  you're  the 
only  one  I've  got  left.  All  my  birds  flown  but 
you  !  And  I  had  five  of  the  sweetest,  sauciest, 
happiest  girls  in  England  once  upon  a  time.  .  .  . 
Now,  come  you  and  pour  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  your 
foolish  old  father.  We're  snug  here — hey  ?  Better 
than  Great  Cumberland — hey  ?  You  monkey  ! ' 
He  pinched  her  ear — and  felt  that  they  shared  a 
secret. 

She  caught  his  happiness,  and  bathed  in  his 
praises,  feeling  as  it  were  the  sun  upon  her  cheeks. 
How  she  loved  to  be  loved  !  How  she  loved  to  be 
praised  for  her  good  looks  !  The  world  had  grown 
suddenly  kind  again  ;  the  world  was  good.  There, 
ahead  of  her,  stood  Mrs.  John  Chevenix  and  a 
friendly  Lady  Maria,  beckoning  her  to  London 
delights,  a  friendly  world  of  admiring  eyes.  She 
was  to  be  looked  at — she  was  to  listen — and  be 
heard.  Her  heart  beat,  eyes  shone  starry.  Life, 
which  had  seemed  behind  her,  now  danced  before, 
a  gay  procession.  She  told  her  father  what  seemed 
to  be  in  the  wind.     He  listened  and  stared. 


262  REST  HARROW  book 

*  Lady  Maria,  hey  !  We  are  going  up  in  the 
world.  The  peerage !  Charles  Street,  Berkeley 
Square !  I  remember  young  Chevenix :  he  had 
swell  connections — yes,  yes.  How  things  come 
about.  This  will  please  your  mother,  my  dear. 
She  sets  a  store  by  such  things/  Their  eyes  met, 
and  she  nodded. 

*  Yes,  I  thought  of  that.  But  what  do  you  feel 
about  it,  Papa  ?  You  see — I  couldn't  very  well 
come  back  to  Great  Cumberland  Place. ' 

He  did  see  that,  poor  man.  c  No,  chick,  no. 
That  wouldn't  work  out — that  sum.  You  and 
your  mother  never  did  add  up  very  well — No,  no. 
Much  as  I  should  have  liked  it.  But  Charles 
Street  ?  Hum.  I'm  a  plain  man,  you  see,  a  plain, 
old  comfortable  merchant — and  the  older  I  grow, 
the  more  comfortable  I  get,  I  believe.  Now,  I 
don't  see  myself  in  Berkeley  Square,  making  a  bow 
to  Lady  Maria.  My  poor  old  back's  too  stiff  for 
that.  But  if  you're  contented — if  you're  to 
have  your  deserts — for  you're  a  little  beauty,  my 
love,  and  there's  no  mistake  about  it — why,  what 
can  I  say?  And  I  know  you  won't  forget  Papa 
in  The  Poultry — hey  ? ' 

She  held  him  her  hand  across  the  tea-cups, 
smiling  with  her  eyes.  *  Do  you  really  think  I 
shall?' 

He  caught  fast  to  the  little  hand.  ■  No,  child, 
no  !  Though,  mind  you,  I  deserve  it.  When  I 
think  that  I  let  you  be  packed  out  of  my  house — 
neck  and  crop — to  the  devil,  for  aught  I  knew — I 
grow  cold.  My  dear,  it's  taken  me  suddenly  at 
night — when  I've  been  wakeful — and  I've  groaned 


,v  SANCHIA  IS  CANDID  263 

in  my  agony.  It  don't  do  to  think  of — hideous  ! 
Women  make  fools  of  us  men,  and  knaves  as  well. 
But  there !  You  know  your  mother's  way.  I 
mustn't  speak  against  her,  of  course.  No,  no. 
She's  a  good  woman.'  He  looked  as  if  he  tried 
hard  to  believe  it.  t 

Sanchia,  her  hand  still  held,  had  grown  serious. 
*  Papa,'  she  said,  ■  I  want  you  to  understand  me 
altogether.  I  should  do  it  again,  I  believe,  if  I 
really  loved  somebody.' 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously,  then  away  from 
her,  while  he  patted  her  caught  hand.  *  Yes,  my 
dear,  yes.  I  understand  that  you  feel  like  that. 
It's  queer — to  me,  you  know.  I  don't  pretend  to 
see  it  as  you  do.  But  I  trust  you.  I  know  you're 
a  good  girl.  Only — it's  not  the  old-fashioned 
way  ;  and  your  mother —  ' 

*  Mamma,'  she  said,  ■  is  different.  She  thinks 
I'm  wicked  ;  you  think  I'm  good.  I  don't  know 
what  I  am — I  don't  understand  myself  at  all ;  but 
I'm  quite  sure  that  I  should  do  it  again,  if  it  had 
to  be  done.'  He  eyes  grew  large  with  the 
certainty  of  her  argument.  She  had  a  divine 
seriousness,  a  rapt  look,  as  of  one  inspired  from 
within.  *  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  it,  if  you 
see  quite  clearly  that  the  person  needs  you.  It 
seems  disloyalty.  It  seems  making  too  much  of 
yourself — as  if  what  happened  to  that  part  of  you 
mattered  !  And  it  seems  making  too  little  of 
yourself,  too — as  if  you  shrank,  as  if  you  were 
afraid  of  vile  people.  One  can't  afford  to  be 
afraid — for  the  sake  of  such  a  small  thing.' 

Mr.  Percival,  nodding,  patting  her  hand,  put  in 


264  REST  HARROW  book 

a  gentle  remonstrance.  *  I  shouldn't  say  that, 
Sancie,  I  shouldn't  indeed.  It  used  to  be  con- 
sidered everything  in  the  world,  to  a  woman.' 

She  mused,  then  decided.  c  No.  I  can't  under- 
stand that.  It's  not  everything  in  the  world.  It's 
almost  nothing  compared  to  other  things — like 
freedom.  To  me  the  only  thing  that  seems  to 
matter  is  one's  mind.  Freedom  for  that !  You 
can  give  up  anything  else.  But  that  you  must 
have — if  you  are  to  live  at  all.' 

He  made  a  loyal  effort  to  follow  her  thought, 
but  it  led  him  into  dismal  regions  where  he  found 
himself  unnerved.  '  I  don't  know,  upon  my  soul, 
where  you  get  these  notions  of  yours,  my  dear.  I 
don't  indeed.     Not  from  me,  I  believe.' 

She  smiled  gently  at  him,  but  with  a  wistful 
tinge,  as  if  she  felt  her  isolation.  ■  I  don't  know, 
either — but  there  they  are.  I  always  know  what 
I've  got  to  do.  I  see  it,  or  feel  it,  ahead  of  me. 
There's  a  path  that  way,  a  path  the  other.  I  see 
the  fork,  and  have  to  follow  one  of  them.  I 
always  know  which.' 

That  was  equally  beyond  him.  He  left  it,  and 
returned  to  a  more  practical  puzzlement.  '  But 
when — when  you  made  up  your  mind  about — himy 
you  know  ?     I  wish  you  would  tell  me.' 

1  I'll  tell  you  everything  I  can,  dearest,  of 
course.' 

'  Well,  now,  your  freedom,  you  know.  Your 
freedom  of  mind.  Now,  you  gave  him  your 
freedom,  didn't  you !  And  your  mind  too  ? 
Didn't  you,  now  ? ' 

She  had  to  consider  that,  and  he  watched  her 


SHE  KNOWS  THE  WAY  265 

with  anxiety.  But  she  looked  him  fairly  in  the 
face  with  her  answer,  so  that  he  read  the  truth  in 
her  eyes.  l  No,'  she  told  him.  *  No.  He  never 
had  that,  luckily  for  me.  I  always  knew  what  I 
had  to  do  before  he  did.  I  could  always  see  where 
he  was  right  and  I  was  wrong — or  the  other  way 
about.  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  give  up  my 
judgment.  At  least — '  She  had  to  think 
again  ;  and  again  she  answered  him,  but  with 
heightened  colour.  'If  I  did — it  would  be  a 
different  sort  of  person  altogether.  Quite  a 
different  person.' 

His  face  fell.  This  didn't  sound  like  marriage- 
bells.  ■  Oh,  my  dear  ! '  he  said  ruefully.  '  You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me — ' 

She  jumped  up  and  hugged  him.  '  You  darling 
old  thing,  of  course  not.'  But  she  kept  her  face 
buried  in  his  whiskers.  '  If  I  ever  did  that — give 
up  my  mind,  I  mean — I  believe  I  should  be 
happier.' 

Mr.  Percival  had  no  doubt  about  that.  He 
had  old-fashioned  opinions. 


IV 

Mrs.  John  Chevenix,  a  young  and  lively  woman 
with  ash-coloured  hair,  audacious  nose,  and  a  clear 
complexion,  was  devoted  to  her  husband's  family, 
and  especially  tender  to  our  young  friend  and 
Sanchia's,  with  whom  she  had  a  strong  alliance. 
Her  husband  had  a  sense  of  humour,  which  he 
indulged  for  the  most  part  in  silence.  He  spoke 
rarely,  swallowed  his  laughter,  and  yet  was  good 
company.  You  felt  his  sympathy,  found  yourself 
depending  on  it.  You  gauged  his  relish  by  a 
twinkle,  by  a  deeper  shade  of  purple  in  his  cheeks, 
by  a  twitching  ear.  The  Stock  Exchange  gave 
him  a  sufficiency,  and  his  wife,  with  her  taste  for 
dinner-parties,  saw  to  it  that  it  gave  him  no  more. 
*  Let's  bleed  old  John,'  was  Bill  Chevenix's  pleasant 
way  of  suggesting  an  escapade  which  might  run 
into  hundreds.  *  It  will  do  him  good,'  Mrs.  John 
used  to  agree  ;  and  John  Chevenix  would  chuckle 
internally,  and  say,  '  Go  it,  you  two.'  On  these 
terms  they  were  all  very  happy. 

Bill  Chevenix  had  told  his  sister-in-law  as  much 
about  Sanchia  as  he  thought  fitting.  To  begin 
with,  he  took  all  responsibility  upon  himself  for 
the  opening  scene  of  her  wild  adventure.  He  had 
introduced  '  the  chap '  into  the  Percival  household, 

266 


book  iv  MRS.  JOHN  267 

and  it  was  he,  too,  who  had  not  introduced  the 
fact  of  his  unhappy  marriage.  '  Took  it  all  for 
granted  —  thought  they  knew  it  —  forgot  they 
didn't  belong  to  that  gang — your  gang,  my  gang, 
Nevile's  gang.  Rotten  of  me,  my  dear,  but  there 
you  are.'  Mrs.  John  understood  him  to  feel  more 
contrite  than  he  appeared.  And  next  he  lauded 
Sanchia,  after  his  own  manner.  As  thus :  c  A 
queer  young  fish.  You  can't  judge  her  by  the 
rules  of  the  game.  She  shows  her  strength  by 
breaking  'em.  She'd  break  anything  and  any- 
body. Oh,  she's  as  deep  as  the  Dogger.  But 
mighty  pleasant  with  it,  you  know.  Fine,  quiet 
style  of  her  own.  And  a  beauty.  My  word,  but 
she's  like  a  rose.'  Then  his  eyes  met  hers  con- 
fidentially. A  wink  passed.  *  No.  We're  great 
friends.  That's  all  there  is  to  it,  on  my  honour. 
But  you  can't  leave  a  girl  like  that  stranded, 
can  you  now?  Especially  when  you've  run  her 
aground  yourself — in  a  way.  So  I  thought  of  old 
Aunt  Wenman  in  a  minute.  In  fact,  I've  seen 
her  about  it,  and,  by  George,  she  hit  on  a  phrase 
in  a  trice.  "  Unfortunate  attachment."  She's 
perfectly  happy  with  that,  and  rather  keen.  Now 
all  you  have  to  do  is  to  give  a  party,  and  I'll  ask 
Sancie.' 

Mrs.  John  thought  that  was  too  casual.  '  You 
mustn't  treat  her  like  a  dancing  man,'  she  told 
him.  ■  I  shall  call  on  her,  and  you  can  tell  her 
I'm  coming.     We'll  do  the  thing  in  form.' 

All  this  had  been  done,  and  the  call  returned. 
Sanchia's  still  serenity,  seen  through  the  rosy  mist 
of  her  momentary  confusion,  pleased  Mrs.  John. 


268  REST  HARROW  book 

The  invitation  was  made  and  accepted  in  parting. 
*  Do  come.  We  shan't  have  many  people,  you 
know  ;  but  I  won't  let  you  be  dull.  And  Bill  will 
be  there,  of  course — and  you  rather  like  Bill — and 
a  queer  old  Aunt  of  ours  who  knows  everybody. 
So  I  hope  you  won't  mind.' 

I  I'm  sure  I  shan't,'  Sanchia  said,  and  then  they 
shook  hands. 

Bill  Chevenix,  who  had  been  present,  waved 
himself  away  from  the  doorstep.  '  By-by,  my 
dear,'  he  said.  ■  You've  done  bravely  by  me. 
Isn't  she  splendid  ? ' 

*  I  like  her,'  said  Mrs.  John.  *  But  she's  rather 
unapproachable.' 

Bill  chuckled.  '  That's  her  little  way.  She 
don't  kiss  easily.' 

Mrs.  John  said  that  he  ought  to  know. 

The  party  was  anything  but  dull.  Lady  Maria 
dined  with  seven  other  people,  the  best  that  could 
be  mustered  on  short  notice — and  Sanchia  came  in 
at  ten  o'clock,  when  the  drawing-room  was  full. 
She  came  with  an  elderly  friend,  a  Mrs.  Quantock, 
whose  acquaintance  she  had  made  in  an  omnibus, 
and  renewed  at  the  British  Museum.  Mrs. 
Quantock  was  an  authoress  by  profession,  a  poetess 
by  temperament.  Her  emotions,  not  always  under 
control,  consorted  oddly  with  her  broad  and  placid 
face.  She  knew  Lady  Maria  Wenman,  and  it  was 
she  who  actually  performed  the  introduction,  Mrs. 
John  being  fast  at  her  stair-head. 

I I  particularly  want  you  to  know  my  dear  friend 
— Miss  Sanchia  Percival — Lady  Maria  Wenman. 
A  great  heart,  Lady  Maria,  in  a  frame  of  steel.' 


iv  AUNT  WENMAN  269 

'  Oh,  indeed/  said  Lady  Maria.  Then,  *  Come 
and  sit  with  me,  my  dear  ;  I've  heard  about  you. 
But  I  hope  you've  left  your  steels  at  home.' 

*  If  I  had  a  trumpet/  said  good  Mrs.  Quantock, 
1  instead  of  a  penny  whistle,  all  the  world  should 
hear  what  I  think  of  Sanchia.' 

*  Then  it's  a  very  good  thing  you  haven't,'  said 
Lady  Maria.  '  The  less  young  ladies  are  trumpeted 
in  public  the  better  ! ' 

Sanchia,  during  this  interchange,  had  stood 
smiling  and  self-possessed  ;  but  she  was  a  little 
fluttered,  and  looked  none  the  worse  for  that. 
Without  a  word  she  obeyed  the  twinkling  and 
puckered  old  lady,  sat  by  her  on  the  sofa  and 
awaited,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  what  might 
be  in  store  for  her.  She  liked  the  looks  of  Lady 
Maria,  and  had  no  disrelish  for  her  sharp  tongue, 
nor  fear  of  what  might  fall  to  her  share  when  Mrs. 
Quantock  took  herself  off.  She  liked  the  little, 
deep-set,  dark  gray  eyes,  the  beaked  nose,  like  the 
prow  of  a  trireme,  and  the  drawn-in  mouth,  which 
seemed  to  be  victim  of  the  astringencies  it  was 
driven  to  utter.  And  then  she  liked  the  signs  of 
race,  the  disregard  of  opinion,  the  keen  look  which 
lit  on  a  man  or  woman  and  saw  him  negligible  and 
left  him  in  the  road.  She  had  herself  an  artist's 
eye  for  style,  and  saw  in  Lady  Maria  the  grand 
manner.  The  praise  or  blame  of  such  as  she 
would  be  worth  having  ;  awaiting  either,  she  felt 
herself  braced.  She  could  envisage  the  past,  collect 
it,  display  it  in  her  lap  without  fear.  *  Here's  my 
life's  work,  so  far  as  it  has  gone.  Now  beat  me  if 
you  will  ;  I'm  not  afraid  of  honest  blows.'     She 


270  REST  HARROW  book 

knew  there  would  be  no  sham  outcries  from  this 
high-looking  old  dame. 

Lady  Maria  Wenman  was  rich,  imperious, 
whimsical,  and  afraid  only  of  boredom.  By  birth 
a  daughter  of  Lord  Starcross,  by  fate  the  widow  of 
a  judge,  she  was  strongly  of  opinion  that  she  could 
do  as  she  pleased.  It  was  not  so  clear  to  her  that 
other  people  could  also  ;  but  the  reason  of  that 
was  that  other  people,  not  immediately  about  her, 
were  not  themselves  clear.  She  once  said  of  a 
prime  minister,  c  My  dear,  he  seemed  to  me  a 
very  good  sort  of  man  '  ;  and  that  was  her  attitude 
all  the  world  over  towards  those  not  connected 
with  her  by  blood  or  the  affections.  Marks  of 
race  she  had,  but  not  pride  of  it.  She  was  her 
own  fountain  of  honour,  and  were  you  omnibus- 
tout  or  commander-in-chief,  if  she  liked  you  you 
were  in  being,  if  not,  you  didn't  exist.  One 
consequence  of  this  was  that  she  hated  nobody, 
and  was  offended  at  nothing.  The  vices  or  crimes 
of  a  non-existent  world  were  mere  shadows,  natur- 
ally ;  those  of  her  circle  of  cognizance  she  had 
a  way,  very  much  her  own,  of  accounting  for.  A 
trick  of  hers,  which  had  become  inveterate,  was  to 
explain  states  of  being  by  phrases.  These  not 
only  explained,  they  seemed  to  condone  ;  and  to 
her,  there's  no  doubt,  they  accounted  for  every- 
thing. Mr.  William  Chevenix,  aware  of  her 
foible,  did  not  scruple  to  turn  it  to  his  ends 
when  putting  before  her  Sanchia's  case.  \  You  see, 
Aunt,  one  rather  admires  her  loyalty  to  the  chap. 
He  was  precious  miserable,  and  she  pitied  him. 
Well,  we  know  what  comes  of  that,  don't  we? 


iv  THE  CLICUt  271 

It  turns  to  liking,  and  gratitude,  and  all  those 
swimmy  feelings  ;  and  then  they  swim  together, 
all  in  a  flux,  eh?  And  there  you  are.'  To 
which,  when  Lady  Maria  had  nodded  her  head  of 
kindly  vulture  sagely,  and  mused  aloud,  *  I  see  ; 
an  unfortunate  attachment.  Very  common,  I 
believe,  and  quite  sad/  he  knew  that  he  had  scored 
a  point.  When  she  had  added,  ■  We  must  do 
what  we  can,  of  course  ;  I'll  see  her  ;  I've  no- 
body with  me  just  now/  he  presumed  that  he  had 
won  the  rubber. 

Apart  from  the  comfortable  clichi  in  which  she 
was  seen  enfolded,  Sanchia  pleased  the  eye.  Her 
father,  in  league  with  her  throughout,  had  '  stood ' 
her  a  frock,  the  cunningest  that  Madame  Freluche 
could  supply,  and  would  have  added  pearls  for  her 
hair  and  neck  if  she  had  not  tenderly  refused 
them.  She  took  his  counsels  in  the  general — that 
she  was  to  show  them  what  was  what,  '  for  the 
honour  of  the  Percival  girls' — and  her  own  for 
the  particular  ;  would  have  no  ornaments  at  all. 
By  an  entirely  right  instinct  she  chose  to  wear 
black.  It  set  her  off  as  dazzlingly  fair,  as  more 
delicate  than  she  was.  Her  eyes,  from  her  pale 
brows  and  faintly  tinted  cheeks,  gleamed  intensely, 
burningly  blue.  Her  strength  appeared  in  her 
shut  lips  and  firm  chin  —  subtle,  and,  as  Mrs. 
Quantock  said,  like  that  of  steel  wire. 

She  did  not  talk  much,  but  what  she  said  was 
simple  and  direct.  She  seemed  to  be  reticent 
about  herself,  not  by  any  means  from  shame,  but 
because  her  acts  and  intentions  appeared  too  ob- 
vious to  be  worth  rehearsing.     Once  or  twice  her 


272  REST  HARROW  book 

laugh,  low  and  musical,  showed  that  she  relished  a 
joke.  Lady  Maria  occasionally  made  jokes.  Here 
was  a  girl  who  understood  them. 

To  the  old  gentlewoman,  who  never  beat  about 
bushes,  but  mostly  walked  through  them,  Sanchia's 
bluntness  made  immediate  appeal.  Her  reply, 
for  instance,  to  the  enquiry,  What  had  induced 
her  to  go  on  with  the  affair,  was  a  counter-ques- 
tion. *  What  else  could  I  do  ? '  she  had  asked, 
with  pencilled  brows  arched.  ■  I  thought  it  made 
no  difference.  I  wanted  to,  you  see.  What  you 
do  is  nothing  compared  with  what  you  want  to  do.' 

'  Then  why  do  it,  my  dear  ? '  said  Lady  Maria. 
Sanchia  did  not  blink  the  answer,  ■  Nevile  wanted 
me.      He  was  very  unhappy.' 

4  Well/  said  the  old  woman,  ■  what  is  he  now  ? ' 
This  time  Sanchia  did  not  reply. 

Lady  Maria  drew  her  lips  in  until  her  mouth 
looked  like  a  dimple  in  her  face.  '  Oho  !  That's 
it,  is  it  ?  He's  neglected  you,  and  now  you  don't 
care  ? ' 

'I  care  for  some  things  very  much,'  said 
Sanchia.  ■  I  want  to  please  Papa,  and  Vicky,  my 
sister,  you  know — and  I  think  I  want  to  put  my- 
self right  with  the  world.     But — ' 

1  But  you  don't  care  two  pins  about  him  ? ' 

Sanchia  shook  her  head  sadly.  Her  brows  were 
arched  to  her  hair.  '  No,'  she  said,  c  I  don't  care 
one  pin.' 

Lady  Maria  was  no  fool.  She  saw  exactly  what 
was  going  to  happen,  and  no  reason  why  she  should 
not  declare  it.  She  had  formed  already  a  high 
enough  opinion  of  Sanchia — which   is  to  say  no 


iv  LONDON  PHILOSOPHY  273 

more  than  that  she  liked  her — to  be  sure  that  it 
would  not  influence  her  conduct.  '  I'll  tell  you 
what  the  end  of  this  will  be/  she  said.  ■  You'll 
have  him  on  the  floor,  kissing  your  toes.  He'll 
be  mad  to  have  you — and  you'll  marry  him. 
Then  he'll  be  your  slave  for  life.  And  they  tell 
me  that's  the  happiest  state  a  woman  can  live  in. 
I  have  some  reason  for  believing  it.  I  and  the 
judge  got  along  admirably,  though  the  poor  man 
might  have  bored  me  to  extinction.  Oh,  you'll  do 
very  well.     But  don't  make  him  jealous.' 

Sanchia  considered  this.  *  I  don't  think  he 
would  be  jealous,'  she  decided  ;  *  but  we  are  rather 
premature,  aren't  we  ?  '  And  then  she  related,  as 
if  they  were  an  anecdote,  the  circumstances  of  her 
departure  from  Wanless. 

Lady  Maria  listened  carefully,  nodding  a  dis- 
passionate head  at  details  which  would  have  raised 
Philippa's  hair,  and  depilated  Mrs.  Percival.  ■  I 
think  he's  a  human  being,  if  you'll  allow  me  to 
say  so,'  was  the  conclusion  she  came  to.  *  It  was 
no  affair  of  the  gardener's  that  I  can  see  ;  and  to 
be  battered  in  your  own  drive  by  your  own  servant, 
even  you  must  allow  to  be  provoking.' 

*  Oh,'  Sanchia  assured  her,  *  I  didn't  at  all  mind 
his  being  vexed.  But  he  accused  me  of — all  sorts 
of  things.' 

1  Of  course  he  did,  my  dear,'  cried  Lady  Maria. 
*  He  was  in  a  towering  rage.  How  was  he  to 
know  that  you  hadn't  egged  on  the  gardener  ? ' 

1  By  what  he  knew  of  me  already,'  said  Sanchia 
with  spirit.  Lady  Maria  twinkled ;  but  her 
scrutiny   was    keen.      *  I    don't    think    you    have 


274  REST  HARROW  book 

explained  the  gardener,'  she  told   her.      Sanchia 
blushed. 

*  He's  a  boy,'  was  her  suggestion  ;  but  Lady 
Maria's  comment  on  that  was,  *  And  a  bruiser  it 
seems.' 

Sanchia  smiled  gently.  '  Poor  Struan  !  He  was 
very  difficult.  He  made  me  furiously  angry. 
What  he  did  was  outrageous.  But  I  am  sure  he 
is  a  genius.' 

*  What  ! '  cried  her  ladyship.  '  A  genius  at 
gardening  ?  or  at  thrashing  gentlemen  ? ' 

Sanchia  said  simply,  *  It's  extraordinary  what 
he  can  do  with  plants.  He's  certainly  a  genius 
there.  He's  like  a  plant  himself.  He  never  goes 
to  bed,  but  walks  about  the  garden  all  night,  talk- 
ing to  them.' 

'  Like  a  burglar,'  said  Lady  Maria.  '  Pray, 
what  does  he  talk  to  them  about  ?     Growing  ? ' 

'Sometimes,  I  think.  I  don't  know  what  he 
says  to  them.  But  he  talks  about  all  sorts  of 
•things.' 

I  You,  for  instance  ?  •  Lady  Maria  asked, 
suddenly  ;  and  Sanchia  blushed  again,  and  pre- 
sently looked  at  Lady  Maria.  '  He's  always  nice 
to  me,'  she  said,  mildly. 

I I  think,'  her  ladyship  resumed,  '  I  think  I  like 
to  think  of  him  best  in  prison  ; '  and  then  washed 
him  out  of  her  memory  as  she  faced  more  serious 
topics. 

1  It  will  be  much  better  for  you  to  come  to 
me,'  she  told  Sanchia.  '  I'm  an  old  woman,  and 
an  old  tyrant,  I  daresay,  but  I'm  somebody,  you 
know.      And  I'm  pretty  lonely,   and  happen  to 


iv  LONDON  PRACTICE  275 

want  company  just  now.  It  will  be  good  that  you 
have  a  foothold  to  your  name  when  your  Nevile 
Ingram  comes  after  you.  I  shall  bring  him  to 
reason  quicker  than  most  people,  I  don't  doubt. 
Your  quarrel  is  absurd  ;  you  can't  afford  to 
quarrel  with  your  bread  and  cheese.  You've 
your  father,  you'll  say  ;  but  my  answer  is  that  it's 
not  very  decent  to  live  upon  your  father  when 
you've  got  yourself  kicked  out  of  his  house.  I 
quite  see  your  point  of  view,  mind  you.  These 
things  will  happen,  and  in  theory  you're  per- 
fectly in  the  right.  It's  your  practice  that  won't 
do.  All  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost — very 
fine  indeed.  But  so  long  as  we're  in  the  world, 
you  see,  we  carit  lose  it.  There  it  is.  Now 
you've  had  your  kisses,  and  can  afford  to  settle 
down  ;  but  you  must  do  it  in  the  world's  way  if 
you  want  peace  and  quietness  ;  and  I'm  very  ready 
to  help  you.  Really,  I  don't  see  anything  better 
for  you — short  of  your  own  home.' 

*  I  shall  never  go  there  again,'  Sanchia  told  her, 
directly. 

*  Very  right,  my  dear,'  said  the  old  lady.  *  Then 
you  had  better  come  to  me.' 

Sanchia  said,  ■  I  should  like  that,1  and  Lady 
Maria,  taking  her  by  the  chin,  patted  her  cheek. 

*  And  so  should  I,  my  dear,'  she  said — and  the 
thing  was  as  good  as  settled. 

Mrs.  John,  released  from  her  stair-head,  came 
up  presently  ;  Bill  Chevenix  was  with  her.  *  Dear 
Aunt  Wenman,'  she  said,  c  I  haven't  had  a  word 
with  you  since  you  came  ;  but  I'm  sure  you've 
been  happy.' 


276  REST  HARROW  bookiv 

*  Miss  Sanchia  and  I  have  been  swearing  eternal 
friendship/  said  Lady  Maria. 

*  Exchanging  drops  of  blood,  eh,  Aunt?* 
chirped  the  cheerful  youth.     ■  Nothing  like  it/ 

*  I  have  no  blood  to  spare,  William,'  she 
replied,  '  and  if  I  had,  Miss  Sanchia  has  too  much. 
Now  you  can  take  her  away  while  I  talk  to  Helen. 
Good-bye,  my  dear,'  she  bade  Sanchia. 

1  Good-bye,  Lady  Maria,'  the  girl  replied,  with 
deeply  sincere  eyes.  You've  been  very  kind  to 
me/ 

'  Fiddlesticks/  said  Lady  Maria.  *  I  like  you. 
Now  run  away,  the  pair  of  you/ 

*  Right,  Aunt,'  said  Chevenix,  and  crooked  his 
arm. 

After  a  decent  interval,  in  which  we  may 
suppose  formal  visits  exchanged  between  Charles 
Street  and  Great  Cumberland  Place,  Sanchia  set 
up  her  rest  in  the  former  mansion.  The  time  was 
full  June. 


The  string  of  episodes  which  discovered  before  the 
autumn  was  over  the  heart  of  Mr.  Cyrus  Worth- 
ington  at  her  feet  hardly  deserves  record  in  her 
history  but  for  the  fillip  which  it  gave  to  her 
spirits.  Tribute  is  tribute,  and  Mr.  Worthington 
was  a  warrantable  gentleman.  The  tarnish  she  had 
discerned  upon  her  armour,  the  foxmarks  upon 
her  fair  page,  dispersed  under  his  ardent  breath  ; 
she  realised  herself  desirable  and  loveworthy  ;  she 
arose  from  the  thicket  in  which  she  cowered  with 
the  light  of  triumph  prophetic  in  her  eyes,  the 
flush  of  victory  after  victory  prophetic  in  her 
cheeks.  Therefore  Mr.  Worthington's  career  in 
the  Charles  Street  lists  shall  be  chronicled. 

He  was  a  portly  widower,  a  banker,  a  father, 
who  made  his  bow  to  Lady  Maria  some  three 
times  a  year  when  he  dined  in  Charles  Street.  In 
return,  he  received  her  ladyship  once  during  a 
summer  at  his  mansion  of  Fallowlea,  Walton-on- 
Thames.  On  such  occasions  the  Misses  Worth- 
ington and  their  cousins,  the  Pascoe  girls,  who 
lived  at  Esher,  would  enact  a  pastoral  play  in  the 
shrubberies  with  various  entangled  curates,  with 
young  Sam  Worthington  from  Oxford  and  friends 
of  his.       Mr.    Worthington   himself,    master   of 

277 


278  REST  HARROW  book 

the  difficult  art  of  declaiming  verse  as  if 
it  were  bad  prose,  rehearsed  the  Prologue  and 
Epilogue  in  a  master's  gown  and  mortarboard, 
which  he  would  retain  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 
It  was  in  that  guise  that,  his  caution  deserting 
him,  he  allowed  himself  to  dwell  upon  Sanchia's 
beauty. 

Lady  Maria  had  taken  her  down  to  Walton  in 
mid- July  ;  she  had  chanced  to  meet  Melusine 
there,  and  the  two  had  embraced  as  sisters  should. 
It  is  to  be  owned  that  her  adoption  by  Charles 
Street  had  restored  her  credit  with  her  family  more 
certainly  than  any  white  sheet  and  taper  which  she 
could  have  supported  would  have  done.  Her 
mother  was  highly  gratified,  though  she  affected  a 
shrug  when  good  Mr.  Percival,  in  the  simplicity 
of  his  heart,  overflowed  with  the  joy  of  it. 
*  Sancie  in  Berkeley  Square — where  Lord  Rose- 
bery  lives  :  think  of  that,  my  dear  ! '  And  Mrs. 
Percival,  who  knew  where  Lord  Rosebery  lived  as 
well  as  anybody,  would  reply,  '  These  things  will 
be  balanced  hereafter.  Neither  you  nor  I,  Wel- 
bore,  are  assessing  angels,  I  believe.  I  pray  to 
God  that  she  has  made  her  peace  with  our  Church.' 
4  Chapel  Royal,'  said  Mr.  Percival,  cwill  be  her 
ladyship's  ticket — or  St.  James's,  Piccadilly.  They 
tell  me  that  the  great  world  go  there  now  in  the 
evenings,  dressed  for  dinner.'  Privately  he  vowed 
that,  should  his  Sancie  be  one  of  those  immaculate 
worshippers,  she  should  not  fail  in  toilet.  And 
he  had  not  missed  the  point  so  far  as  you  might 
think.  Philippa  Tompsett-King,  who  had  been 
present  when  these  things  were   discussing,   had 


iv  THE  TWO  SISTERS  279 

lifted  an  inflamed  face  over  the  dinner-table.  i  I 
only  know/  she  had  said,  '  that  I  would  rather  live 
in  Bloomsbury  than  have  her  conscience.  Cynicism 
has  always  seemed  to  me  the  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost/  But  Melusine  Scales,  the  gentle  creature,, 
had  written  meekly  of  her  joy  ;  and  Vicky 
Sinclair  said  to  her  husband,  the  captain — *  Sancie 
always  tumbles  on  her  feet.  She  always  did — like 
a  sweet  cat.'  Shrewd  and  affectionate  at  once, 
she  alone  had  discerned  the  god's  prerogative  im- 
manent in  the  youngest  daughter  of  Thomas 
Welbore  Percival. 

But  the  picture  of  Sanchia  and  Melusine,  two 
fair  girls,  standing  together  embraced  under  the 
cedarn  shade  had  smitten  deep  into  the  well-cased 
heart  of  Cyrus  Worthington.  He  had  come  upon 
them  at  a  pretty  moment,  when  Melusine,  the 
willowy  and  tall,  having  opened  her  arms  to  the 
dear  truant,  one  arm  still  about  her,  with  her  free 
hand  touched  her  cheek  that  lips  might  meet  lips. 
4  Darling,  I'm  so  glad — so  very  glad,'  she  was 
whispering,  and  Sanchia,  with  the  same  light 
laughing  in  her  eyes,  *  Dear  old  Melot — how  sweet 
you  are  to  me.'  Mr.  Worthington  pushed  back 
his  mortarboard  and  revealed  the  crimson  chevron 
which  it  had  bitten  into  his  bald  brow.  *  A  charm- 
ing scene — two  charming  young  ladies  !  Mrs. 
Gerald  Scales  and  her  sister,  I  think.  Lady 
Maria's  adoption — charming,  charming  !  '  A  right 
instinct  sent  him  tiptoe  over  his  lawn,  another  made 
him  doff  his  mortarboard. 

1  Mrs.    Scales,   we   begin.      The   hunt    is   up. 


280  REST  HARROW  BOok 

Poesy  calls,  "  Follow,  follow,  follow !  "  Your 
sister,  I  think  ? ' 

Sanchia  played  the  rogue.  c  Oh,  Mr. 
Worthington,  have  you  forgotten  already  ? 
Lady  Maria  explained  me  half- an- hour  ago. 
Must  Melusine  introduce  me  again  ? ' 

'Not  for  the  world,  Miss  Percival,  not  for 
the  world  ! '  the  banker  protested.  '  I  was  in  a 
sense  explaining  myself.  Pray,  do  not  suppose 
that  I  could  forget  either  you  or  my  manners  so 
completely.  No,  no.  But  I  am  a  little  near- 
sighted, I  fear ;  there  is  a  little  difficulty  of 
focussing  ;  nothing  organic,  no  loss  of  function.' 
He  cleared  his  throat,  and  to  give  himself  assur- 
ance, jingled  half-crowns  with  his  plunged  hand. 
'  No  loss  of  function  whatever.'  He  took  the 
thing  a  little  more  seriously  than  he  need,  was  in 
danger  of  labouring  it.  Melusine  turned  the  talk. 
He  invited  them  to  the  play,  as  '  master  of  the 
revels,'  and  walked  between  them,  looking  a 
very  decent  figure  of  a  don  on  a  college  lawn, 
substantial,  serene,  and  with  an  air  of  displaying 
his  possessions  :  '  Parva  sed  apta  mihi ;  Deus  nobis 
haec  otia  fecit  I  *  He  still  possessed  the  rags  of  his 
Latin.  *  This  little  bay-tree  will  interest  you, 
Miss  Percival.  It  was  planted  many  years  ago 
by  the  late  Lord  Meeke — the  uncle  of  the  present 
peer.  We  had  had  some  business  relations ; 
they  were  happily  cemented  into  something  more 
intimate  by  this  little  fellow.'  He  touched  it 
tenderly.  *  A  sturdy  growth !  Like  my  affec- 
tion for  my  noble  but  departed  friend.  Dear 
me  !      Labuntur    anni,    indeed ! '      His    fig    tree, 


iv  SEDATE  ENCHANTMENTS        281 

which  some  one  else  had  planted,  his  laburnum — 
a  slip  from  one  at  Rickmansworth,  the  seat  of 
the  late  Lord  Mayor  Burgess — a  catalpa  seedling 
from  Panshanger,  which  the  late  Lady  Cowper 
did  him  the  honour  to  present  with  her  own 
hands  :  as  Sanchia  said  afterwards  to  Melot,  his 
garden  was  rather  like  a  cemetery  of  dead 
friendships.  .  .  . 

Then  they  sat  to  witness  the  revels.  Sanchia's 
fancy,  uplifted  by  her  contentment,  played  with 
the  play,  and  suggested  flights  undreamed  of  for 
many  a  year.  She  sat  by  Melusine  and  her 
husband,  and  Mr.  Worthington  watched  her  in 
the  long  intervals  of  his  duty.  Charming  indeed, 
and  most  high-bred  :  now  where  did  old  Welbore 
Percival,  whom  he  met  daily  in  Throgmorton 
Street,  fetch  up  such  a  strain  of  blood  ?  His 
wife,  too,  Kitty  Blount,  as  she  had  been — what 
had  Kitty  Blount  been  but  a  high-coloured, 
bouncing  romp  of  a  girl  when  they  had  all  been 
paddling  together  at  Broadstairs  ?  Extraordinary ! 
And  now  here  was  one  of  his  girls  sister-in-law 
of  a  county  baronet — none  of  your  city  knights, 
mind  you — and  the  other,  with  the  lift  of  a 
princess  and  the  clear  sight  which  is  hers  by  title. 
Extraordinary ! 

And  there  was  another  thing  :  where  had  old 
Welbore  and  Kitty  Blount  kept  her  all  this  time  ? 
And  why  wasn't  she  married,  a  girl  like  that  ? 
She  came  next  to  Mrs.  Scales,  he  supposed.  Well, 
but  there  was  another,  younger  still,  married  only 
the  other  day — to  an  army  man.  He  remembered 
Welbore  chirping   about  it  at  a  Board  meeting. 


282  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


What  was  that  in  the  Bible — what  was  it  ?  Ha  ! 
— *  But  thou  hast  kept  the  good  wine  until  now.' 
By  George,  he  must  remember  that  for  old 
Welbore.  And  now  he  came  to  think  of  it, 
old  Jack  Etherington  had  come  in  one  morning 
full  of  Percival's  daughter — '  A  lovely  gal  • — he 
had  said,  that  old  Jack  —  *  colour  of  a  Mildred 
Grant — quiet  as  the  truth.' 

Such  were  the  ruminations  of  Cyrus  Worthington 
at  his  own  garden-party,  and  he  pursued  them  at 
favoured  moments — with  his  glass  of  port  at 
dessert,  with  his  last  cigar,  with  his  whisky  night- 
cap. In  the  city  next  day  he  rallied  Thomas 
Welbore,  who  betrayed  unlimited  relish  for  the 
diversion ;  and  within  a  few  days  more  he  left  a  card 
in  Charles  Street  and  took  a  late  train  to  Walton- 
on-Thames.  Asked  in  due  course  to  dinner,  he 
handed  Sanchia  to  the  table,  and  spent  the  evening 
by  her  side.  He  begged  her  better  acquaintance 
with  his  daughters,  made  the  most  of  that  which 
he  had  with  Melusine  Scales,  and  ended  a  success- 
ful adventure  by  winning  Lady  Maria's  acceptance 
'  for  herself  and  her  young  friend,'  of  a  banquet 
at  the  Coopers'  Company  of  which  he  was  warden. 
The  occasion  was  a  great  one — a  foreign  potentate, 
the  Prime  Minister,  Lord  Mayor,  and  Sheriffs. 
The  Coopers  were  to  distinguish  themselves,  or 
be  extinguished.  He  could  promise  them  of  the 
best.  Sanchia,  new  to  courtship,  was  quietly 
elated,  and  her  amusement  did  nothing  to  diminish 
her  elation.  She  had  never  been  wooed  before : 
there  had  been  nothing  of  the  kind  in  those 
shuddering  days  when  she  and  Ingram,  trembling 


iv  FAIR  PROPOSALS  283 

in  each  other's  sight,  had  mutely  cried  across 
the  waste  of  London  for  balm  upon  their  wounds. 
The  flattery  of  attentions  had  never  been  hers, 
nor  the  high  credit  of  admiration  so  respectful 
as  the  good  merchant's.  He  esteemed  her  the 
fairest  and  holiest  of  women,  was  as  timid  as  a 
boy  in  her  company,  gasped  like  a  fish  and  grew 
unmannerly  hot ;  but  I  defy  a  young  woman  to 
be  anything  but  gratified.  Miranda  shunned 
Caliban ;  but  had  she  not  rather  he  had  been 
there  to  be  shunned  ? 

Thus,  under  Lady  Maria's  watchful  eye,  the 
thing  proceeded,  and  Mr.  Worthington,  within 
an  ace  of  committing  himself,  scared  his  family. 
The  climax  was  reached  at  Kissingen,  whither 
the  infatuated  gentleman  had  followed  his  charmer. 

She  was  very  kind  to  him,  but  perfectly  clear 
that  she  could  not,  and  would  not,  make  him  the 
happiest  of  men.  She  said  that  she  was  flattered, 
which  I  believe  to  have  been  true,  though  he 
deprecated  the  phrase.  '  My  dear  young  lady — 
ha !  I  must  really  be  allowed — I  assure  you  that 
you  overwhelm  me.  Flattered — oh,  Lord  !  ' 
He  limped  the  conclusion,  and  left  for  England 
that  night. 

She  felt  the  thing  to  have  been  rather  ridiculous, 
and  yet  she  was  pleased.  She  was  gently  elated, 
and  had  a  kindly  eye  for  herself  as  she  dressed  before 
her  glass.  Power  lay  with  her  ;  she  could  choose 
and  weigh,  accept  or  refuse.  She  was  loveworthy 
yet.  In  spite  of  her  disaster,  a  man  had  sought 
her.  Others  would  do  that  same,  moved  by 
what  had  moved  him.     Shining  eyes,  body's  form, 


284  REST  HARROW  book 

softness,  roundness — she  had  hardly  thought  of 
these  things  before,  nor  looked  at  them  with  an 
eye  to  their  value.  Mr.  Worthington's  ardent 
glances  had  illuminated  her  own,  and  by-and-by 
she  found,  oddly  enough,  that  they  threw  a 
backward  beam,  and  illuminated  others.  She 
found  herself  smiling  tenderly  as  she  thought  of 
Jack  Senhouse,  and  repeating  some  of  that  poetry 
which  he  had  literally  poured  into  her  lap.  It 
was  so  long  ago !  But  when  she  remembered  how 
much  it  had  puzzled  her,  she  now  found  that 
she  was  not  puzzled  by  it  at  all. 

Your  eyes  are  twin  mountain  lakes,  and  the  lashes  of  them 

Like  the  swishing  sedge 

That  hideth  the  water's  edge.  .  .   . 

Were  her  eyes,  then,  so  fair  !  Mr.  Worthington 
had  found  them  so.     Others  would — others  had. 

*  Thy  face  drinketh  the  light,' — he  had  written 
that  of  her — and  now  she  knew  that  he  had  be- 
lieved it.  Had  Nevile  felt  these  things  ?  Could 
Nevile — as  she  knew  him  ?  Her  lip  curved  back. 
If  she  could  not  think  of  herself  without  thinking 
of  Nevile — who  wanted  to  mangle  her — better 
take  the  veil. 

But  she  felt  the  strange  reality  behind  that  wild 
and  adoring  passion  of  Jack  Senhouse's,  which  had 
made  him  so  incalculable  a  mixture.  He  advised 
her,  and  adored,  he  received  her  confidences,  and 
emptied  verses  out  of  his  heart  into  her  lap.  And 
she  had  had  nothing  to  give  him,  who  had  given 
her  all !  All  indeed  ;  for  now  she  saw  that  he 
had  loved  her  beyond  measure,  reason,  or  stint. 


iv        CRY  FROM  CHANCTONBURY     285 

There  had  been  that  last  of  his  letters — a  despair- 
ing cry  from  Chanctonbury,  written  when  she  was 
Nevile's  shadow,  and  he  hers.  She  felt  stabbed  to 
the  heart  to  remember  how  perfunctorily  she  had 
read  that.  How  did  it  go  ?  What  had  he  said  t 
She  could  not  recall  the  words,  but  their  sense 
beat  upon  her.  Oh,  he  had  set  her  too  high  ! 
He  had  called  her  Artemis — the  chaste,  the  bright* 
Artemis  the  Bright  had  been  one  of  his  names  for 
her — and  Queen  Mab  another.  He  had  set  her 
too  high !  And  how  far  had  she  fallen  ?  She 
bowed  her  burning  head,  and  even  as  she  did  so> 
remembered  another  phrase  of  his,  sent  with 
flowers — a  line  from  the  Anthology,  begging  her 
to  grant  his  rose  *  the  grace  of  a  fair  breast/  No 
longer  fair,  no  longer  fair — except  to  Nevile,  who 
craved  it — and  to  a  Mr.  Worthington. 

The  bravest  gentleman,  a  poet,  a  thinker,  a 
man  like  a  beacon-fire,  had  loved  her,  and  cried 
her  aloud  as  a  goddess  out  of  his  reach.  i  Fare- 
well, Sanchia,  too  dear  for  my  possessing  !  '  She 
had  the  words.  And  she  had  passed  him  by  for 
Nevile,  who  made  her  a  housekeeper,  and  loved 
her  when  he  wanted  solace.  What  more  had 
Jack  said  ?  What,  indeed,  had  he  not  said  ? 
That  her  life  was  like  the  scent  of  bean-flowers 
over  a  hedgerow — a  fragrance  caught  in  passing 
by  wayfarers,  whereby  men  and  women  might 
thank  God  for  a  fair  sight  who  had  chanced  upon 
her  in  the  street.  Praise  indeed !  But  he  had 
loved  her,  and  saw  her  so — and  all  that  was  gone 
for  ever.  He  had  left  her  because  he  dared  not 
do  otherwise,  and  now  he  was  happy  without  her. 


286  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


Her  new-found  elation  was  like  to  die  in  self- 
pity.  It  required  more  than  the  complacency 
inspired  by  Mr.  Worthington  to  clear  her  eyes. 

Thus  were  the  flowers  laid  up  for  her  by  an 
honest  merchant  changed  for  a  wreath  of  rue  as 
she  was  reminded  of  his  better — his  better  and 
(she  thought)  hers,  alas  !  A  wave  of  desire  to  catch 
back  at  far-off  things  played  her  a  trick.  She  found 
herself  yearning  for  her  childhood,  found  herself 
crying  for  her  innocence,  for  the  sweet  scent  of 
opening  life.  Even  as  she  longed  and  strained, 
she  knew  herself  vain.  But  the  temptation  for 
the  semblance  of  what  was  gone  was  strong  and 
took  a  subtle  form.  If  she  could  not  have  the 
thing,  she  would  have  the  thing's  name  ;  if  she 
could  not  be  innocent  again,  she  would  ape 
innocency.  Prodigal  of  Pity  as  she  has  been,  she 
could  say  to  Senhouse's  ghost,  I  am  no  more 
worthy  of  thee  ;  and  from  that  to  being  worthy 
was  but  a  short  step.  The  rest  of  her  sojourn 
abroad  was  preparation  for  what  was  to  be  done 
on  her  return  home. 

Her  treasure  lay  hidden  there,  in  a  desk  in  her 
room  :  three  portly  packets  of  letters,  tied  with 
ribbon,  and  labelled  *  Jack  to  Me/  Stained  and 
yellow,  she  now  turned  over  the  pages,  and  inhaled 
the  faint,  sweet  scent  of  them — a  scent  as  of  lavender 
and  tears.  Her  eyes  filled,  her  heart  beat ;  but 
she  read  on  and  on.  Impossible  praises  !  Love 
beyond  reason,  without  bounds  —  immeasurable 
homage  !     Did  any  man  ever — save  Dante — love 


iv  SANCHIA  IN  CHURCH  287 

a  woman  so  greatly,  set  her  so  high?  So  pre- 
sently she  was  caught  up  into  a  kind  of  heaven 
of  wonder,  and  spent  a  night  with  the  past.  .  .  . 
From  that  she  arose  clear-eyed  to  meet  the  future. 
If  she  had  been  so  loved,  so  served  by  man  so 
generous  and  so  fine,  the  rest  of  her  life  might 
well  be  spent  in  testimony.  Her  single  aim  now 
should  be  to  recover  herself,  to  be  what  he  had 
once  seen  her.  And  for  all  this  high  remembrance 
and  high  hope — thanks  to  Mr.  Cyrus  Worthington  ! 

Lady  Maria,  as  the  weeks  went  by,  watched 
her  carefully,  and  marked  the  change.  Sanchia 
was  very  subdued,  and  now  went  to  church.  This, 
to  the  old  lady,  who  did  not,  was  remarkable.  She 
was  not  aware,  naturally,  of  a  passage  in  a  letter 
which  pictured  her  in  church — with  her  'dear 
obsequious  head,  bowed  in  a  fair  place  to  a  fair 
emblem.'  She  could  not  have  understood,  if  she 
had  had  it  explained,  that  the  girl,  conscious  of 
her  stiff  neck,  was  teaching  herself  obsequiousness 
for  the  sake  of  him  who  had  seen  her  so  and  found 
her  dear.  None  of  these  things  were  for  Lady 
Maria's  comprehension  ;  but  she  reflected  aloud 
upon  church-going,  and  got  her  young  friend  to 
explanations. 

*  Yes/  Sanchia  said,  'I  do  go  to  church.  For 
a  long  time,  you  see,  I  couldn't — but  now  I  feel 
that  I  can.  We  were  all  brought  up  to  go  to 
church.' 

4  So  was  I,'  said  Lady  Maria,  '  and  that,  I  take 
it,  is  why  I  don't  go  now.  I  was  taught  to  take 
it  as  physic' 


288  REST  HARROW  book 

Sanchia's  explanation,  which  she  yielded  on 
pressure,  of  why  she  had  stopped,  was  very  artless. 
*  I  wanted  to  do  something  that  they  thought 
wicked,  but  which  I  thought  quite  good.  If  I 
went  to  confession,  I  should  have  been  told  that  I 
was  wicked.  So  I  couldn't  go.  It  was  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion,  you  see/ 

*  Beg  pardon/  said  Lady  Maria,  *  but  I  don't 
see.  What  you  mean  is  that,  if  you'd  told  your 
priest  you  were  going  off  with  Ingram,  he'd  have 
said,  Don't,  and  put  you  under  the  necessity  of 
disobeying  him.'  She  owned  to  it.  And  then 
she  owned  to  something  more.  If  the  difficult 
choice  came  before  her  again,  she  would  think 
twice.  '  I  can't  see,  even  now,  that  I  was  wrong 
in  what  I  did.  I  am  sure  it  must  be  right, 
somehow,  to  follow  your  own  conscience.  But 
I  do  see  that  it's  a  pity  to  break  rules.  Yes,  I 
see  that.' 

c 1  didn't  suppose  myself  religious,'  Lady  Maria 
had  replied,  '  but  if  that  is  what  your  religion  tells 
you,  I  agree  with  it.  It's  common  sense.  What's 
a  heart  or  two  compared  with  peace  and  quietness  ? 
And  how,  pray,  is  a  child  of  eighteen  to  know 
what  her  conscience  is  worth  ? ' 

*  It  is  all  she  has  to  go  upon,'  said  Sanchia  ;  but 
the  old  lady  retorted,  *  Nothing  of  the  kind.  She's 
got  the  experience  of  all  Nature  behind  her,  from 
the  poultry-yard  to  the  House  of  Lords.  You'll 
find  that  the  Ten  Commandments  are  rigidly  en- 
forced among  the  cocks  and  hens.  If  a  member 
of  the  zenana  breaks  bounds  there,  she  rues  it. 
How  else  do  you  suppose   this  world  is  to  be 


iv  AUNT  WENMAN  ON  LAW        289 

peopled  ?  Read  the  history  of  marriage,  my  dear. 
You'll  find  that  the  more  primitive  your  man  the 
more  complicated  his  marriage  laws.  Why,  bless 
my  soul,  I  don't  need  the  Church  to  tell  me  that  I 
mustn't  run  away  with  a  married  man.  I  can  learn 
that  from  the  pigeons  in  the  piazza  at  Venice.  But 
I  suppose  I'm  an  old  pagan.  Now,  you  run  away 
to  your  priest  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.' 

Perhaps  Lady  Maria  was  fanciful,  but  she  put 
down  this  return  to  the  Church's  knees  to  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Worthington  had  gone  upon  his. 
'The  child  finds  that  she's  a  valuable  article,'  she 
said  to  herself;  'so  she  locks  herself  up  in  the 
cupboard,  like  the  best  china.'  Sanchia's  resolu- 
tion persisted,  and  enthusiasm  followed  its  growth. 
She  frequented  the  churches  early  in  the  mornings, 
and  one  fine  day  presented  herself  in  the  vestry  of 
one  of  them.  Upon  her  knees,  but  with  unbent 
head  and  eyes  fixed  steadily  to  the  grille,  she 
rehearsed  her  tale  from  the  beginning,  neither 
faltering  nor  losing  countenance.  What  followed 
upon  that  was  not  communicated  to  her  protec- 
tress, nor  do  I  care  to  pry.  I  imagine  that  she 
had  always  said  her  prayers,  but  that  now  she  was 
answering  them. 

That  is,  when  one  thinks  upon  it,  the  first  office 
of  prayer. 


VI 

Lady  Maria  Wenman  grew  to  be  extremely  fond 
of  Sanchia,  really  as  fond  of  her  as  she  was  capable 
of  becoming  of  anybody.  She  had  been  good  to 
travel  with,  and  was  good  to  live  with.  She  found 
her  so  reasonable,  she  said.  One  could  discuss 
anything  without  shocking  her,  or  without  fear  of 
being  made  uncomfortable  by  seeing  her  discom- 
fort. Lady  Maria,  in  fact,  being  entirely  without 
prejudice,  experienced  the  little  luxury  of  being 
able  to  express  herself  without  trampling. 

On  her  side  also,  Sanchia  sincerely  liked  her  old 
protectress,  and  found  Charles  Street  agree  with 
her.  There  was  a  primordial  air  about  it,  which 
made  habits  seem  like  laws  of  Nature  ;  an  absence 
of  fuss  which  soothed  her  nerves,  and  did  much 
better  than  slay  her  monsters  for  her,  when  it  ex- 
posed them  for  no  monsters  at  all,  but  simple, 
everyday,  rather  tiresome  concomitants  of  our 
makeshift  existence. 

*  You  will,  of  course,  marry  Nevile  Ingram/ — 
thus  Lady  Maria  disposed  of  the  most  dread  of  all 
monsters — '  because  it  is,  on  the  whole,  more  agree- 
able to  avoid  scandal,  and  because  it  is  certainly 
more  decent  to  pay  one's  bills.  Long  credit  is  a 
mistake  ;    but   you    found    it    a    convenience,    I 

290 


book  iv  MOROSINE  291 

suppose  ;  and  now  you  are  in  funds,  you  will,  of 
course,  get  out  of  debt.  If  only  that  you  may 
run  into  it  again  at  need,  you  will  draw  a  cheque. 
Now,  you  had  eight  years  of  it  at  Wanless,  you 
tell  me?  Very  well,  my  dear,  that  must  be 
written  off  Society's  books.  Meanwhile,  the 
more  you  see  of  amusing,  emancipated  people 
like  Alexis  Morosine  the  better.' 

This  man  was  understood  to  be  a  Pole  in  exile, 
though  his  title  to  that  distinction  could  only  have 
been  on  the  side  of  the  distaff,  since  his  father's 
descent  from  a  ducal  family  of  Venice  was  not 
denied  ;  but  neither  nationality  nor  expatriation 
was  very  obvious  upon  him.  At  first  sight  you 
would  have  supposed  him  a  sallow  Englishman, 
spare  of  flesh  and  too  narrow  in  the  chest ;  you 
might  have  put  down  his  dead  complexion  and  his 
leanness  to  India  or  Jamaica,  and  been  inclined 
to  attribute  his  dry  cynicism  to  the  same  super- 
fervent  experience.  But  presently  you  would  be 
alive  to  his  hungry  mind,  to  his  hungry,  ranging 
air,  his  restless  habit  and  large  way  of  looking  at 
circumstance — as  if  by  no  possibility  could  it  be 
any  concern  of  his.  And  then  the  trick  he  had 
of  considering  our  people  as  Europeans,  of  dividing 
the  races  of  the  world  by  continents  rather  than 
kingdoms  ;  and  that  other  of  judging  all  cases, 
including  yours  and  his  own,  upon  their  merits — 
such  traits,  to  an  experienced  mind,  would  have 
established  him  for  a  foreigner,  one  of  a  people 
who  had  had  too  much  elbowing  for  breath  to 
have  time  or  space  for  prejudice  or  minute  classi- 
fication.    Superficially,  to  be  sure,  he  was  English 


292  REST  HARROW  book 

enough — from  his  speech  to  his  tailoring  ;  and 
his  phlegm  (of  which  we  boast)  was  unassailable. 
Nobody  knew  much  of  his  history  ;  Bill  Chevenix 
used  to  say  that  he  was  born  whole,  and  thirty,  out 
of  an  egg  dropped  upon  our  coasts  by  a  migratory 
roc ;  that  he  stepped  out,  exquisitely  dressed,  and 
ordered  a  whisky  and  Apollinaris  at  the  nearest 
buffet.  This,  said  Chevenix,  was  his  ordinary 
breakfast.  When  Sanchia  objected  that  he  might 
have  stepped  out  in  the  afternoon,  he  replied  that 
it  also  formed  his  usual  tea,  and,  so  far  as  he  knew, 
was  the  staple  of  all  his  meals.  *  And  cigarettes/ 
he  added.  *  But  he  would  have  had  those  with 
him.  I  bet  you  what  you  like  he  came  out 
smoking.' 

It  was  certain  that  he  had  been  to  Eton  and  to 
Oxford,  and  was  member  of  two  good  clubs.  He 
was  extremely  rich,  and  he  was  by  profession,  said 
Chevenix,  a  prince.  He  had  no  territory,  and  was 
not  apparently  scheming  to  get  any,  either  of  his 
own  or  other  people's.  Nobody  at  the  Foreign 
Office  believed  that  he  corresponded  with  any 
intransigent  ;  he  used  to  go  there  often  and  ex- 
change urbane  gossip  with  under-secretaries.  He 
lodged  in  Duke  Street,  gave  dinner-parties  at  the 
Bachelors',  had  a  large  visiting-list,  and  was,  as  they 
say,  always  '  about.'  One  saw  him  everywhere — 
in  the  City,  in  Mayfair  drawing-rooms,  at  Kensing- 
ton tea-parties,  and  at  Lambeth  Palace.  Chevenix 
swore  that  he  had  met  him  at  a  Church  Congress 
— and  the  only  answer  to  that  was  that  if  Chevenix 
had  truly  been  there  to  see,  Morosine  might  well 
have  been  there  to  be  seen.     But  this  catholicity 


iv  AN  EXILE  AT  EASE  293 

of  experience  was  characteristic  of  the  man  ;  his 
attraction  to  the  nice  observer  lay  precisely  in 
that,  that  he  was  a  nomad,  unappeased  and  un- 
appeasable, ranging  hungrily.  There  was  a  prob- 
ability, too,  that  below  a  surface  exquisitely  calm 
there  lurked  corrosive  tooth  and  claw.  Here  are 
sufficient  elements  of  danger  to  draw  any  woman  ; 
so  Sanchia  found  herself  presently  drawn. 

He  came  to  Charles  Street  one  evening  late  in 
November,  to  what  Lady  Maria  called  a  little 
party.  There  was  an  autumn  session  that  year, 
and  London  full.  To  her  little  party,  then,  came 
a  solid  wedge  of  three  hundred  people  into  rooms 
capable  of  holding  with  comfort  fifty. 

Chevenix  was  by  Sanchia's  side  at  the  top  of  the 
stair,  chatting  pleasantly  about  every  new-comer, 
when  he  suddenly  stopped.  ■  Hulloa,'  he  said, 
*  here's  Morosine,  as  smooth  as  a  glass  stiletto. 
He'll  amuse  you.     I'll  introduce  him.' 

Sanchia  followed  the  leading  of  his  eyes.  She 
saw  a  tall  and  slim  young  man,  inordinately  thin, 
slightly  bald,  with  a  moustache  like  a  rake,  and 
heavy-browed,  mournful  eyes,  pushing  his  way 
slowly  upstairs.  Without  effort,  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  working  from  the  shoulders,  he  made 
room  for  himself,  but  so  quietly  that  nobody 
seemed  to  observe  how  aggressively  he  was  at 
it.  Occasionally  some  ousted  dowager  turned 
redly  upon  him,  or  it  might  be  some  pushing 
gentleman  smothered  an  oath  as  he  faced  the 
attack.  But  Morosine's  mournful  eyes  gazed 
calmly  their  fill,  seemed  to  be  communing  beyond 


294  REST  HARROW  book 

the  surging  guests,  beyond  the  wall,  with  the 
eternal  stars,  and,  without  faltering,  the  narrow 
frame  glided  forward  into  the  space  which  in- 
dignation had  cleared.  Sanchia,  above  him,  and 
out  of  the  game,  was  highly  amused. 

1  He's  very  selfish,  your  friend.  He  takes  care 
of  himself ;  but  no  one  seems  to  know  it/ 

Chevenix  chuckled.  *  That's  the  beauty  of 
Alexis.  But,  as  he  asks,  whom  else  should  he 
take  care  of?  It's  not  queer  if  the  Poles  have 
learned  that  lesson.' 

'  Oh,'  said  Sanchia.  *  Is  he  a  Pole  ? '  Jack 
Senhouse  had  been  in  Poland. 

i  Half  of  him  is  hungry  Pole.  The  other  part 
is  bad  Italian — pampered  Italian,  fed  for  genera- 
tions on  oil  and  polenta.  He's  always  dining  out, 
but  he  eats  nothing  because  the  Pole  is  feeding  on 
the  Venetian  all  day.'  Then  he  told  her  about  the 
miraculous  birth,  the  whisky  and  Apollinaris,  and 
concluded,  *  Oh,  he'll  amuse  you  vastly.  Stay 
where  you  are.     I'll  net  him  at  the  top.' 

Presently  after  she  saw  the  process.  It  con- 
sisted in  violent  effort  on  Chevenix's  part,  languid 
attention  from  the  other.  Morosine  dreamed  over 
the  speaker  as  if  he  were  a  lost  soul.  Then,  his 
consideration  being  caught,  he  looked  about  him, 
and  presently  fixed  upon  her  his  melancholy  eyes. 
She  felt  a  little  shiver,  the  sensation  of  goose-flesh  in 
the  spine — not  unpleasantly.  It  was  as  if  a  light 
wind  had  ruffled  her  blood.  Shortly  afterwards 
Morosine  was  bowing  before  her.  In  this,  perhaps, 
he  betrayed  himself ;  his  hat  covered  his  heart,  he 
inclined  from  the  hips,  and  his  head  bent  with  his 


iv  SANCHIA  AND  THE  POLE        295 

body.  An  Englishman  bows  with  the  head  only, 
and  does  not  nowadays  carry  his  hat  upstairs. 

He  began  to  talk  quietly  and  at  once,  and 
maintained  a  perfectly  even  flow  of  comment, 
reflection,  anecdote,  reminiscence,  and  sudden, 
flashing  turns  of  inference.  He  seemed  always  to 
be  searching  after  general  principles,  cosmic  laws, 
and  to  be  always  jumping  at  them,  testing  them, 
finding  them  not  comprehensive  enough,  and 
letting  them  drift  behind  him  as  he  pursued  his 
search.  She  remarked  on  this  afterwards  to  Lady 
Maria,  who  said  that  principles  were  the  last  thing 
to  interest  Morosine.  He  had  none  at  all,  said 
Lady  Maria,  unless  his  own  immediate  gratification 
was  a  principle  ;  and  perhaps  with  men  you  might 
almost  say  that  it  was. 

Chevenix  remained,  chuckling  and  interjecting 
here  and  there  an  exclamation,  just  (as  he  told  her 
later)  to  *  start  the  chap  on  his  meander,'  and 
presently  betook  himself  elsewhere.  It  was  then 
to  be  observed  that  Morosine  allowed  himself  to 
drift  into  the  discussion  of  matters  not  usually 
subjects  of  ordinary  conversation  ;  but  he  did 
so  without  consciousness,  and  therefore  without 
offence.  Sanchia  neither  disapproved  nor  felt  un- 
comfortable. They  were,  moreover,  interesting, 
and  rather  material. 

It  began  with  Poland,  a  country  which,  the  less 
it  existed  politically,  he  said,  was  the  better  to  live 
in,  and  be  of.  We  live  by  our  emotions,  the 
beasts  by  their  appetites — a  material  distinction. 
Now,  the  condition  of  the  Poles  was  perfectly 
adapted  to  the  quickening  of  the  emotional  parts. 


296  REST  HARROW  book 

Shorten  time,  you  make  love  a  precious  ecstasy  ; 
restrict  liberty,  freedom  is  a  lust — none  the  worse 
for  being  lawful.  No  Pole  knows  how  long  he 
may  have  to  live  :  Russia  or  phthisis  will  have  him 
late  or  soon.  What  he  pursues,  then,  must  be 
fleeting — imagine  with  what  rapture  he  takes  it  to 
his  breast !  with  what  frenzy  he  guards  it,  never 
knowing  when  it  will  be  required  of  him  again. 
Feverish?  (This  was  upon  a  remark  from  her.) 
Yes,  and  why  not  ?  Are  not  dreams  more  vivid 
than  waking  life  ?  Can  you  gallop  your  material 
horse  as  your  courser  of  the  mind  ?  Better  to 
burn  than  to  rust.  That's  the  secret  of  life — 
which  all  the  laws  of  bureaucrats  are  directed  to 
destroy.  The  establishments  want  to  see  us  as 
fixed  as  themselves.  They  are  tentacled,  stationary 
creatures,  feeding  at  ease.  They  would  have  us 
handy  of  access,  falsely  secure,  so  that  they  can 
fasten  on  us  one  by  one  and  suck  our  juices.  But 
the  world  is  changing,  thrones  and  churches  are 
slackening  in  their  hold.  Men  are  discovering 
how  short  a  time  they  have  to  live,  and  that 
eternity  is  more  than  questionable.  A  mild 
Epicureanism  is  gaining  ground.  Instincts  founded 
on  the  patriarchal  system  must  give  way  to  that. 
1  Have  you  ever  considered,'  he  asked  abruptly, 
'  that  the  flocks  and  herds  of  the  Semitic  patriarch 
are  the  sole  cause  of  the  moral  code  which  we  still 
profess  ?  Thou  shalt  not  steal.  Why  not  ? 
Because  you  injure  the  patriarch.  Not  murder? 
You  might  attack  one  of  his  family.  You  have 
the  habit  in  England  of  tracing  prejudices  to  the 
Feudal  System  :  believe  me,  there  is  hardly  any- 


iv  SENHOUSE  IN  VINEGAR  297 

thing  in  Europe  so  modern.  I  should  date  at 
4000  B.C.  nearly  all  our  present  conventions,  from 
the  British  Sunday  to  the  law  of  conspiracy.  So 
long  as  you  say  that  property  is  sacred,  you  uplift 
the  Patriarch  and  lose  sight  of  the  man.' 

Sanchia,  reminded  of  Senhouse — a  Senhouse  with 
his  tongue  dipped  in  vinegar — objected  that  society 
may  have  demanded  some  of  these  laws  in  defiance 
of  the  engrossing  patriarch  ;  but  Morosine  shook 
his  head.  ■  Society  is  the  patriarch's  weapon. 
Society  is  a  syndicate  of  patriarchs  who  cannot 
live  unless  all  men  are  enslaved.  Man  is  not  by 
nature  gregarious  ;  he's  solitary,  like  all  the  nobler 
beasts.  Wolves  and  dogs  hunt  in  herds  ;  but  not 
the  great  cats  ;  oxen  and  buffaloes,  but  not  ele- 
phants ;  rooks,  but  not  eagles  ;  bream,  never 
salmon.  And  the  time  is  not  so  very  far  when 
man  will  discover  why  it  is  that  he  is  herded  and 
marshalled  hither  and  thither  by  police,  legislatures, 
and  monstrous  assemblies  called  armies  or  fleets. 
He  has  but  to  know  it  to  abolish  these  things  ; 
they  fade  like  dreams  in  the  morning.  But  hitherto 
everything  has  been  banded  to  make  his  sleep  secure 
— his  religion,  his  cupidity,  his  timidity,  his  affec- 
tions. Religion  tells  him  it  is  wrong  to  love 
without  the  Church  ;  patriotism,  that  it  is  glorious 
to  bleed  in  making  other  men  bleed  ;  timidity,  that 
property  keeps  the  wolf  from  the  door  ;  appetite, 
that  under  cover  of  the  law  you  may  devour  your 
neighbour  and  fear  no  indigestion.  Finally,  there 
are  the  affections  of  a  man  which  have  been  so 
guided  that  they  see  the  aged  more  venerable  than 
the  young,  the  old  thing  more  sacred  than  the  new. 


298  REST  HARROW  bookiv 

"  Woodman,  spare  that  tree/'  they  cry  :  "  it  dates 
from  at  least  2000  B.C."  Because  old  wine  is  good, 
they  argue,  old  laws  must  needs  be.  As  well 
might  a  man  say,  Because  I  relish  old  wine,  I  will 
love  only  old  women.  And  so  we  go  on  ! '  He 
shrugged  and  broke  off — to  talk  shrewdly  of  books. 
They  got  to  Leopardi,  from  him  to  Dante  ;  he 
heard  of  her  studies  at  the  British  Museum,  and 
hoped  he  might  meet  her  there.  She  read  there 
often  ?  Mostly  in  the  afternoons  ?  The  light 
was  bad  :  he  usually  devoted  his  mornings  to  what 
work  he  had  there.  He  was  studying  Persian,  he 
said,  but  fitfully,  as  the  mood  took  him. 

So  far  he  had  scarcely  looked  at  her,  but  had 
talked  out  his  monologue  as  if  he  had  been  alone, 
clasping  one  thin  ankle,  staring  wide-eyed  over 
the  heads  of  guests,  occasionally,  when  he  was 
vehement,  throwing  his  head  up,  shooting  his 
words  at  the  ceiling  as  if  they  had  been  Greek 
fire.  Now,  as  he  got  up  to  leave  her,  his  eyes 
dwelt  earnestly  on  her.  *  It  will  be  a  pleasure,  to 
which  I  shall  aspire — that  of  meeting  you  again. 
There  or  elsewhere.' 

She  thanked  him  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
Excitement  made  her  eyes  bright,  mantled  her 
cheeks.  She  felt  that  she  was  communing  with 
Senhouse  at  third  hand. 

'  Then — it  is  understood — we  meet  again,'  he 
concluded.  He  bowed  over  her  hand,  on  a  second 
thought  kissed  her  fingers,  then  left  her  immediately 
and  went  downstairs.  He  paid  no  farewell  to 
Lady  Maria ;  was  ascertained  to  have  left  the 
house  at  once. 


VII 

Morosine  had  been  called  emancipated  by  Lady 
Maria,  who  after  a  week  or  so  found  it  proper  to 
explain  that  he  was  by  no  means  so  free  from  chains 
as  he  appeared.  Sanchia,  she  thought,  was  seeing  a 
good  deal  of  him.  *  He's  the  victim,  like  the 
rest  of  us,  of  his  constitution.  His,  as  you  may 
see,  is  deplorable.  Weak  heart,  they  say — but  it 
may  be  lungs.  I  never  heard  of  a  Pole  who  could 
live  in  any  climate,  least  of  any  his  own.  As  for 
his  mind,  that  follows  his  wasted  body :  it's  hectic. 
He  affects  a  detachment  which  he  will  never  have. 
It's  a  pose.  He  is  exceedingly  sentimental,  has 
an  imagination  which — if  you  could  follow  it — 
might  alarm  you.  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  but  that, 
in  imagination,  he  has  you  safe  in  some  island  of 
Cythera  or  another,  and  has  slain  every  other  male 
inhabitant  of  it  lest  some  one  of  them  should 
happen  to  look  at  your  footprints  in  the  sand. 
Jealous!  He  would  sicken  at  the  word  —  not 
because  he  would  be  ashamed,  but  because  it 
would  conjure  up  the  vision  of  some  satyr-shape, 
and  haunt  him  day  and  night.  He  has  no  need 
to  study  Persian  poetry,  I  assure  you.  He  has 
rose-gardens  enough  and  to  spare  ;  for,  if  you 
are  inclined  to  be  flattered  at  my  suggestion   of 

299 


300  REST  HARROW  book 

Cythera,  I  hasten  to  assure  you  that  yours  is  not 
the  only  island  of  his  dominion.  Bless  you,  he'll 
have  an  archipelago.  But  I  have  no  fear  for  you  ; 
you  can  afford  a  sentimental  education/ 

Sanchia  did  not  tell  her  old  friend  how  far  that 
education  was  proceeding — not  because  she  was 
afraid,  still  less  because  she  was  ashamed,  but  in 
obedience  to  her  nature,  which  was  extremely 
reserved.  She  spoke  of  herself  and  her  affairs 
with  difficulty — never  unless  she  was  forced.  But 
it  had  become  a  custom  just  now — in  the  dull 
days  on  either  side  of  Christmas — to  look  for 
Morosine  in  the  reading-room  about  noon,  to 
stroll  the  galleries  for  half-an-hour,  to  receive  and 
to  agree  to  a  lightly-offered  proposition  that  they 
should  lunch  together,  and  (it  might  well  be)  to 
accept  his  escort  homewards.  This,  I  say,  had 
become  the  rule  of  three  days  in  the  week, 
more  or  less.  And  it's  not  to  be  supposed  that 
so  clear-sighted  a  young  lady  could  see  so  much 
of  so  keen-sighted  a  man  without  a  good  deal 
of  self-communing. 

Her  capacity  for  silent  meditation,  during 
which  she  would  sit  before  her  fire,  gazing  far, 
smiling  at  her  thoughts,  into  the  glowing  coals, 
had  never  left  her.  But  there  was  a  slight  differ- 
ence to  be  noted.  She  could  not  think  of  Ingram 
— the  past,  the  present,  or  any  future  Ingram — 
without  contraction  of  the  brows.  Smooth-browed 
she  thought  of  Morosine. 

He  interested  her  greatly  ;  she  was  conscious 
of  anxiety  to  learn  his  opinion,  of  a  wave  of  warm 
feeling  when   she  awaited   it.      She  credited  him 


MOROSINE  APPROVED  301 

with  insight,  had  a  notion,  for  instance,  that  she 
could  discuss  her  own  affairs  without  any  pre- 
liminary apology.  He  took  so  much  for  granted 
— surely  he  would  take  her  youth  into  full  account. 
She  had  never  said  to  him  a  word  of  herself  as  yet ; 
but  there  had  been  times  when  she  had  felt  near 
it — had  seen  herself  rowing  a  boat,  as  it  were, 
within  range  of  a  weir,  been  conscious  of  effort  to 
keep  a  straight  course,  and  of  the  fruitlessness  of 
effort.  There  had  been  moments  when  she  had 
been  tempted  to  throw  down  her  oars  with  a  sigh 
— by  no  means  of  despair.  Morosine  seemed  to 
her  so  extraordinarily  reasonable,  so  ready,  with 
well-known  laws,  to  account  for  unheard-of 
vagaries,  that  it  would  have  been  real  luxury  to 
her  to  find  herself  and  her  escapade  the  mere 
creatures  of  some  such  law.  To  be  discovered 
normal  :  what  a  relief  from  strain  ! 

Lady  Maria,  it  seems,  charged  him  with 
Oriental  aptitudes.  Sanchia  gave  that  judgment 
careful  attention,  studied  her  friend  in  the  light 
of  it,  weighed  every  word  of  his  to  her,  watched 
him  closely  in  company  when  he  could  not  be 
aware  of  it.  She  decided  against  the  opinion. 
His  manners  with  women  were  his  manners  with 
men,  those  of  urbane  indifference  to  sex.  To  sex ! 
To  much  more  than  that.  He  was,  in  fact,  out- 
wardly polite  to  the  point  of  formality  ;  but  his 
attitude  of  mind  towards  the  person  he  happened 
to  be  with  seemed  to  her — when  she  examined  it 
closely — to  be  sublimely  insulting.  No  created 
thing,  with  the  passions  and  affections  common  to 
his  kind,  ought  to  take  up  such  a  position  with 


302  REST  HARROW  book 

his  fellow-creature — that  which  says,  *  I  infer  your 
existence  from  my  sensations  :  apart  from  them, 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  in  it.'  She  was 
aware  that  he  must  needs  regard  her  from  this 
standpoint,  and  the  knowledge  piqued  her.  If 
she  did  not  exist  for  him,  why  did  he  seek  her 
out  ?  If  she  did,  why  did  he  pretend  she  did  not  ? 
Or  was  Lady  Maria  right  ?  Were  his  sensations 
awake,  and  had  they  fired  his  imagination,  to 
carry  her  to  Cythera,  and  keep  her  hidden  there  ? 
These  questions  amused  her,  and  she  made  no 
attempt  to  answer  them.  Amusement  might  cease 
that  way  :  she  indulged  herself  and  left  her  ques- 
tions open.  One  thing  may  be  added.  Morosine 
no  longer  reminded  her  of  Senhouse.  Quite  other- 
wise— for  of  Senhouse  just  now  she  dared  not  think. 
Her  friend  Bill  Chevenix  gave  her  no  warnings. 
Even  when  she  sounded  for  them,  he  gave  none. 
«  I  like  Alexis,'  he  said  once.  '  He's  not  so 
original  as  he  makes  out,  but  there's  enough  to 
give  him  a  relish.  A  handy  chap,  too,  in  a  dozen 
ways — he'll  model  you  in  wax,  or  draw  you  in 
pastels,  or  sing  about  you  on  the  guitar,  or  whistle 
you  off  on  the  piano  ;  but  he's  not  strong,  isn't 
Alexis.  The  one  thing  he  can  do — no,  there  are 
two.  He  can  ride  anything,  and  he  can  use  a 
revolver.  I  saw  him  empty  the  ten  of  hearts 
once  :  very  pretty.  I  dare  say,  if  he  was  put  to 
it,  he  could  use  an  iron  to  some  purpose  ;  but  we 
don't  stick  each  other  here,  so  he'd  be  out  of 
practice.  I  rather  wish  we  did,  you  know.  It's 
far  more  gentlemanly  than  laying  for  a  chap  out- 
side his  club  with  a  hunting-crop,   and    getting 


iv  TEN  COMMANDMENTS  303 

summoned  for  assault  at  Vine  Street.  Not  a  bit 
more  vicious,  barring  the  Ten  Commandments/ 

*  Prince  Morosine  doesn't  believe  in  them,' 
Sanchia  said.     ■  He's  vowed  to  abolish  them.* 

'  So  he  may  tell  you,  my  dear.  Don't  you 
believe  it.  So  long  as  they  are  good  form  they 
will  be  Alexis*  form.  He'd  sooner  die  than  covet 
his  neighbour's  wife.'  She  reserved  this  for  con- 
sideration. Meantime,  she  saw  more  of  Morosine 
than  of  any  other  man,  and  got  through  January 
very  well  by  his  help. 

She  particularly  liked  his  company  in  galleries, 
because,  though  he  never  allowed  himself  raptures 
— of  which  she,  too,  was  incapable — he  was  always 
seeking  the  roots  of  rapture.  Sanchia  had  a  fund 
of  enthusiasm  for  art  all  the  richer,  perhaps,  for 
being  denied  expression.  It  was  comfortable  to 
have  that  securely  based. 

'  Do  you  ever  consider,'  he  asked  her  once, 
when  they  stood  before  the  great  group  of  the 
Pediment,  'why  it  is  that  these  things  are  so 
beautiful ;  why,  although  they  are  bare  of  colour 
and  all  that  stands  for  life  to  us  in  art,  they  are 
more  than  life  ?  It's  because  they  point  to  a  state 
of  being  exquisitely  conform  to  the  laws  of  being. 
Such  a  perfect  conformity  soothes  us  into  believing 
that  while  we  witness  it  we  are  of  it — ourselves 
conforming.  These  splendid  creatures  here,  so 
superbly  static — idle,  you  might  say  (only  they 
wouldn't  understand  you),  indulging  their  strength 
— are  strong  and  able  precisely  because  they  have 
submitted  themselves — ' 


304  REST  HARROW  book 

*  Unlike  the  Poles  ? '  She  reminded  him  of 
their  first  conversation,  and  saw  that  he  remem- 
bered it.     He  bowed  to  her. 

1  Let  me  finish.  These  existences,  emanations, 
essences,  what  you  will,  are  submiss,  not  to  man, 
but  to  Nature.  They  are  as  passive  as  Earth 
herself,  and  as  immune.  They  derive  their  strength 
from  her.  That's  our  only  reasonable  service. ' 
Whether  he  intended  it  or  not,  the  effect  of  this 
kind  of  talk  was  to  make  her  view  submission  to 
the  world's  voice  as  a  reasonable  service. 

It  was  not  so  odd  as  it  may  seem  that  her 
intimates  had  always  been  men.  That  reticence  of 
hers  which  repelled  her  own  sex  was  precisely  that 
in  her  which  attracted,  by  provoking,  the  other. 
After  her  dumb  childhood,  to  which  she  never 
looked  back,  came  her  opening  girlhood,  and  on 
the  threshold  of  that  stood  Jack  Senhouse,  the 
loyal  servitor,  the  one  man  who  had  loved  her 
without  an  ounce  of  self-seeking.  Then  came 
Nevile  Ingram,  and  swallowed  her  up  for  a  while, 
and  when  he  had  tired  of  her  she  was  once  more 
without  a  friend.  To  Chevenix  afterwards,  rather 
than  to  Mrs.  Devereux,  she  had  struggled  to  utter 
herself.  That  cry  of  distress,  *  he  wants  me,  to 
ravage  me,'  would  never  have  been  made  by  her 
to  a  woman.  She  would  have  died  of  it  sooner. 
And  now  came  the  Pole,  Morosine,  and  by  taking 
for  granted  (as  even  Lady  Maria  could  not  have 
done)  much  that  could  not  have  been  explained, 
put  her  at  her  ease.  She  found  him  a  Jack  without 
the  spirit — without  the  divine  spark.  She  could 
never  have  loved  him,  though  she  liked  him  well, 


iv  MOROSINE'S  LITTLE  PLAN       305 

and  she  had  no  idea  that  he  thought  of  nothing 
but  the  greatness  of  his  reward  when,  after  patient 
toiling,  she  might  fall  into  his  arms.  Every  nerve 
in  her  body  was  now  strung  up  to  obedience  to 
Jack's  idea  of  her.  She  saw,  as  clearly  as  if  it  was 
printed,  her  fate  before  her.  She  was  to  put  herself 
under  the  law.  Jack  should  not  have  loved  in  vain 
her  *  dear  obsequious  head.'  Nevile  would  come 
back  and  require  her.  For  Jack's  sake,  who  had 
seen  her  too  noble  to  be  touched  by  sin,  she  would 
dip  herself  deep  in  sin. 

Morosine,  who  frankly  desired  her  to  be  the  wife 
of  a  man  she  did  not  love  in  order  that  she  might  the 
more  easily  find  consolation  in  himself  afterwards, 
had  the  wit  to  see  that  she  needed  some  of  his 
sophistry,  though  not  enough  to  know  exactly  why. 
It  was  perfectly  true.  Her  churchgoing  was  an 
ointment.  It  could  soothe  but  not  heal  her. 
Sanchia  had  a  mind.  To  do  wrong  by  the  world 
because  it  had  seemed  right  to  her  was  not  to  be 
remedied  by  doing  a  right  by  it  now,  which  to  her 
reasoning  would  glare  before  her  as  a  monstrous 
sin.  She  forgot  that  Senhouse  had  also  taught  her 
that  the  great  sin  of  all  was  insincerity.  She  could 
not  have  afforded  to  remember  that.  All  her 
present  desire  was  to  be,  as  nearly  as  she  might, 
what  she  had  been  when  Jack  had  seen  her  first, 
what  he  had  found  excellent  in  her  and  loveworthy 
— pious,  bowing  her  head  in  a  fair  place,  obsequious, 
obedient  to  the  law.  He  had  loved  her,  of  course, 
whatever  she  did — outraging  the  law  as  well  as 
keeping  it,  loving  Nevile,  letting  himself  go  away. 
She  could  not  remember  that.     He  had  loved  her 


306  REST  HARROW  book 

meek  ;  she  would  be  meek.  That  was  what  her 
heart  told  her  ;  and  Morosine,  to  serve  his  own 
ends,  lulled  her  head  with  his  sophistical  anodynes, 
and  sent  her  brain  to  sleep. 

That  he  should  know  her  story,  as  he  obviously 
did,  was  not  so  disconcerting  to  her  as  it  would 
have  been  to  most  young  women.  Taciturn  as 
she  was,  it  was  not  by  reason  of  timidity,  but 
rather  that  her  own  motives  seemed  too  clear  to 
her  to  be  worth  stating.  She  was,  perhaps,  rather 
given  to  assume  her  prerogative  right  to  be  different. 
Her  first  thought,  therefore,  was  that  she  was  saved 
the  trouble  of  explaining  herself,  and  her  second 
that  it  was  satisfactory  to  have  a  friend  who  under- 
stood her  without  explanations. 

As  for  Morosine,  he  may  or  may  not  have  felt 
that  he  had  broken  the  ice  ;  he  pushed  forward,  at 
any  rate,  as  if  he  had  clear  water  in  front  of  him. 
Sanchia  felt,  when  she  next  met  him,  that  their 
acquaintance  had  entered  on  a  new  phase. 

Then  suddenly,  before  she  knew  where  she  was, 
her  fate  was  upon  her. 

It  was  in  the  Park  on  a  fine  Sunday  forenoon 
in  February.  She  was  with  Lady  Maria,  and  had 
met  with  Melusine  and  Gerald  Scales.  Morosine 
also,  seeing  her  and  meeting  her  eyes,  instantly  left 
his  companion  and  came  to  greet  her,  hat  in  hand. 
He  addressed  himself  to  her  exclusively,  having 
saluted  Lady  Maria  ;  but  she  named  her  sister, 
and  he  saluted  her  too.  Gerald  Scales,  bronzed, 
plump,  and  very  full  in  the  eye,  having  looked  the 
new-comer  over,  decided  against  him,  and  gave 
him  a  shoulder.     *  Foreign  beggar,'  was  the  con- 


iv  PREPARATION  307 

elusion  he  came  to,  which  does  credit  to  his 
perspicacity,  because  the  Pole  had  a  very  English 
appearance,  and  Scales  himself  the  look  of  a  Jew. 

When  they  turned  to  walk  Morosine  took  the 
side  next  Sanchia,  and  though  he  talked  to  both 
ladies,  so  contrived  that  she  should  read  more  in 
what  he  said  than  her  sister.  He  did  it  deftly, 
but  continuously.  Sanchia  was  entertained,  slightly 
excited,  and  ended  by  taking  part  in  the  game  of 
skill.  It  is  impossible  to  say  by  how  much  this 
sort  of  thing  increased  the  intimacy  already  estab- 
lished between  the  pair.  It  was  by  so  much,  at 
least,  that  when  Melusine  joined  her  husband,  by 
dropping  behind  and  waiting  for  him  to  come  up 
with  the  old  lady,  it  came  as  no  sort  of  shock  to 
Sanchia  that  he  took  up  the  talk  where  he  had 
ended  it  in  the  gallery. 

i  You  have  been  to  church,  I  see.  But  you  are 
not  a  Christian  ?  *     He  did  not  look  at  her. 

Nor  did  she  turn  her  head  to  reply.  '  I  don't 
know.     Nominally,  at  least  ;  fitfully,  at  the  most/ 

*  That  must  be  the  outside  of  it,'  he  continued. 
*  The  thing  is  the  antithesis  of  the  Hellenic  ideal 
— which  is  yours.  Your  seemingly  passive  martyr 
is  really  in  an  ecstasy.  He  aims  at  outraging 
Nature ;  begins  by  despising  and  ends  by  dreading 
it.    Nature,  however,  has  ways  of  revenging  herself.' 

*  Yes,  indeed,'  said  Sanchia  soberly. 

They  walked  on  together,  she  by  this  time  very 
much  absorbed.  She  was  not  conscious  of  the 
shifting  crowd,  the  lifting  of  hats,  the  chatter,  the 
yapping  dogs  that  ran  in  and  out  of  women's 
skirts. 


308  REST  HARROW  book 

Presently  he  spoke  again.  '  You  believe  that 
you  failed  ? ' 

Her  voice  came  low.     *  I  know  that  I  failed/ 

Then  he  looked  at  her,  and  spoke  with  vehem- 
ence. 'And  what  is  that  to  you?  What  is, 
failure  in  such  a  cause,  to  such  as  you  ? '  But 
she  could  not  meet  his  face,  kept  hers  rigidly  to 
the  front. 

'  The  cause/  Morosine  told  her,  '  is  everything, 
the  aim,  the  loyalty,  the  great  surrender.  Beside 
this  failure  is  nothing  at  all.  Do  you  say  that  the 
sapling  fails  that  springs  out  of  a  cleft  rock  and 
towers — seeking,  as  we  all  seek,  the  sun,  the  light 
in  heaven  ?  A  gale  gathers  it  up  and  tears  it  out ; 
over  it  goes,  and  lies  shattered.  Is  that  failure  ? 
How  can  it  be  when  nothing  dies  ? ' 

Sanchia,  very  pale,  turned  her  face  to  his  at 
last.  Her  mouth  was  drawn  down  at  the  corners, 
to  the  tragic  droop.  She  almost  whispered  the 
words,  '  Something  did  die.' 

His  intuition  worked  like  a  woman's,  in  flashes. 
He  knew  immediately  what  she  meant. 

1 1  know,  I  know/  he  said.  '  You  were  mis- 
taken. But  you  never  faltered.  You  followed 
a  call/ 

*  You  tell  me,'  she  said,  c  that  there  was  none/ 

'I  do/ 

'  But/  she  argued,  c  that  with  which  I  began 
failed  me.  I  was  entirely  certain,  at  the  time  ;  I 
could  not  possibly  have  hesitated.  And  then — 
it  died/  Her  eyes  loomed  large.  •  It  is  quite 
dead  now,  and  I  feel  that  I  have  betrayed  myself — 
broken  faith  with  myself/ 


iv  INGRAM  AND  THE  HOUR        309 

He  shook  his  head.  *  You  could  not  break 
faith  ;  you  are  the  soul  of  truth.' 

This  praise  she  accepted.  *  I  don't  tell  lies,  I 
hope — and  I  don't  shirk  things.     But  you  see  that 

I  can  stultify  my  own  acts.  I  believed,  and  acted 
on  my  belief;  and  then  I  ceased  to  believe,  and 
acted  on  that.  I  cannot  trust  myself — I  ought  to 
be  ashamed  to  say  so,  and  I  hope  I  am.' 

Morosine  met  her  eyes  again,  and  held  them. 

I I  can  never  believe  that  you  would  fail.  I  tell 
you  that  you  have  not  failed.  It  is  that  you  have 
been  failed.  You  cannot  give  if  what  you  give  is 
not  taken.  Failed — you !  Ah,  no,  you  have 
succeeded,  I  think.' 

She  bent  her  brows  as  she  faced  resolutely 
forward.  *  I  must  take  the  consequences  of  what 
I  have  done.     I  see  that.' 

'Ah,'  said  Morosine,  'that  is  a  question  of 
courage.     Courage  you  have.' 

' 1  need  it,'  she  said  in  a  hush,  and  stopped  dead. 
Ingram  stood  before  her,  and  took  off  his  hat. 

'  Well,  Sanchia,'  he  said,  *  here  I  am.' 


VIII 

The  scattered  party  was  suddenly  strung  to  tensity ; 
Morosine  drew  himself  up,  stiff  as  steel,  but  stood 
his  ground.  Here  was  the  man  he  had  waited 
for,  who  was  necessary  to  him.  Lady  Maria, 
blinking  her  little  black  eyes,  Melusine,  with  hers 
in  a  blur  of  mist,  Gerald  Scales,  level  and  im- 
passive, joined  the  other  three. 

Ingram,  with  a  stretched  smile,  was  volubly 
explaining.  '  I've  been  in  London  a  week — to- 
day's the  first  glimpse  of  the  sun  I've  had.  I  do 
think  they  might  make  better  arrangements  for  a 
man  home  from  Africa.  I  met  your  mother  last 
night  at  a  play.  She  told  me  that  I  might  see  you 
here.'  He  turned,  without  effrontery,  to  greet 
Melusine.  *  Ages  since  we  have  met.  Ah,  Scales, 
how  are  you  ? ' 

The  tall  Melusine  stooped  her  head;  Scales 
nodded,  then,  by  an  afterthought,  shook  hands. 
1  I'm  very  fit,  thanks,'  he  said.     *  Been  travelling  ? ' 

Sanchia  sought  the  side  of  Lady  Maria,  to 
whom  she  named  Ingram.  His  exaggerated  bow 
was  accepted.  'So  you've  arrived,  I  see,'  said 
Lady  Maria. 

'  One  does,  you  know,'  Ingram  shrugged  at  the 
inevitable.     '  All  roads  lead  to  Rome.' 

310 


book  iv  INGRAM  AT  WORK  311 

*  Most  roads  lead  to  Lady  Maria,'  Morosine 
said  to  Sanchia,  who  replied  from  her  heart, '  I'm 
very  glad  that  mine  did/  Moved  either  by 
loyalty  to  his  friendship,  or  touched  by  his  recent 
words,  she  then  brought  him  bodily  into  play. 
1  Mr.  Nevile  Ingram  ;  Prince  Morosine.' 

The  two  men  inclined  ;  Morosine  lifted  his  hat, 
Ingram  touched  his  brim. 

Ingram,  whom  Morosine  judged  as  a  hard  worker 
just  now,  supported  his  part  with  great  gallantry. 
If  he  was  naked  to  all  these  people  who  knew  him, 
he  appeared  quite  unashamed.  Morosine,  watch- 
ing him  carefully,  believed  that  he  had  devoted  a 
night's  vigil  to  getting  word  perfect.  He  described 
Khartoum  with  vivacity — the  English  drill  sergeant 
reigning  over  mudheaps,  flies,  and  prowling  dogs ; 
getting  up  cricket-matches  for  the  edification  of 
contemptuous  blacks.  ■  They  judge  us,  those 
fellows,  you  know.  They  are  measuring  us  with 
their  glazed  eyes.  The  cud  they  chew  has  gall  in 
it.  I  don't  suppose  anything  offends  them  more 
deeply  than  our  idiotic  games.  Is  there  a  more 
frivolous  race  in  the  world  than  ours  ? ' 

Lady  Maria  suggested  that  the  Boers  might 
ask  that  question  ;  Morosine  that  the  Germans 
might  answer  it.  Sanchia  standing  between  these 
two,  faced  by  Ingram,  kept  silent.  She  was 
conscious  of  being  closely  under  observation. 
Morosine  did  not  once  lose  sight  of  her.  What- 
ever he  said  was  addressed  to  her.  Once,  when 
she  looked  at  him,  she  saw  the  gleam  of  knowledge 
in  his  eyes.  He  and  Ingram  never  spoke  to 
each  other  directly  ;   indirectly  Morosine  capped 


312  REST  HARROW  book 

whatever  Ingram  said.  It  was  these  two  who  main- 
tained the  talk  through  her  sensitive  frame. 

Melusine  and  her  husband  exchanged  glances 
—  she  in  obedience  to  his  fidgety  heel.  He 
had  dug  a  hole  in  the  gravel  deep  enough  to 
bury  a  kitten.  Her  curtsey — it  was  almost  that 
— to  Lady  Maria  was  very  pretty.  She  drew 
in  her  suffering  sister,  almost  embraced  her. 
1  Dearest,  dearest ! '  she  whispered.  Sanchia,  who 
was  very  pale,  made  no  answer,  and  hardly  returned 
the  salute. 

c  Insufferable  beggar  ! '  was  Gerald  Scales'  out- 
burst. '  I  could  have  shot  him  at  sight.  But  you 
women  will  go  through  with  it,  I  suppose.' 

c  Oh,  Gerald,'  faltered  Melusine,  '  it's  dreadful 
— but  what  can  she  do  ? ' 

'  Ton  my  soul,  I'd  take  Morosov — the  Polish 
party — what's-his-name — first.  I  would  indeed — 
on  the  whole.' 

There  was  nothing  to  say.  Melusine  knew 
that  could  not  be. 

Lady  Maria,  however,  who  never  made  a  fuss 
over  spilt  milk,  lost  no  time  in  ladling  up  what 
might  be  possible.  She  asked  Ingram  to  luncheon, 
and  was  accepted  with  a  cheerful  *  Thanks,  most 
happy.'  It  may  have  been  malice  which  turned 
her  to  Morosine  with  the  question  :  *  And  you  ? 
Will  you  join  us  ? ' 

Morosine  promptly  excused  himself.  He  had 
guests,  and  must  consider  them.  He  took  cere- 
monious leave.  *  You  remember,  I  hope,  that  I 
am  to  see  you  on  Thursday,  Lady  Maria.     And 


iv  HEROISM  SUGGESTED  313 

Miss  Percival  ?  '     He  looked  to  Sanchia,  who  did 
not  turn  him  her  eyes. 

*  Perfectly,'  said  her  ladyship.  "  What's  your 
hour  ? ' 

*  We  will  dine  at  half-past  eight.'  He  named 
the  restaurant.  He  turned  to  pay  his  farewells  to 
Sanchia.  She  looked  him  No,  being  unable  to 
speak  to  him.  Her  eyes,  deep  lakes  of  woe,  were 
crying  to  him.     His  answered. 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  received  hers. 
■  Thursday,'  he  repeated,  and  left  her  with  her 
fate. 

Lady  Maria,  at  luncheon,  made  what  she 
called  the  best  of  a  bad  business.  She  treated 
Ingram  to  a  brisk  curiosity.  'So  you're  a 
wanderer,  I  hear — like  the  Gay  Cavalier  of  my 
childhood.  Your  mother  may  have  heard  the 
song.  Mine  sang  it.  1  believe  that  that  kind 
of  thing  was  considered  heroic  in  her  day  ;  in 
ours,  heroism  is  more  difficult,  and  much  more 
dull.     You  might  try  heroism,  Mr.  Ingram.' 

*  I  might,  no  doubt,'  Ingram  said.  *  Hitherto, 
I've  preferred  to  travel.  But  I'm  home  for  good 
now,  so  far  as  I  can  see.' 

(We  all  hope  so,'  said  Lady  Maria.  'But 
that  remains  to  be  seen.' 

1  Of  course  it  does,'  said  Ingram  blandly,  and 
turned  to  Sanchia.  ■  I  thought  your  mother 
looking  very  well.  Your  father  wasn't  there.  I 
saw  Philippa,  by  the  way ;  but  I  suppose  she 
didn't  remember  me.  That  was  her  husband  with 
her,  I   take  it.     Stiff  old   boy.'     So  he  went  on, 


3H  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


letting  bygones  be  bygones.  It  was  after  luncheon 
that  her  ordeal  came. 

Lady  Maria  having  departed  for  her  siesta,  he 
came  instantly  to  Sanchia  with  his  hand  out  for 
her.  *  Sancie,  I  couldn't  talk  before  all  those 
people.  You  must  forgive  me,  my  dear.  You 
are  too  good  a  sort — you  must  forgive  me.' 

He  had  to  wait ;  but  slowly  she  lifted  her  hand 
and  let  him  take  it.  '  I  have  forgiven  you/  she 
said.     He  stroked  her  arm. 

'  That's  nice  of  you — that's  like  you.  I  know 
that  I  behaved  like  a  brute.  I  was  awfully  cut  up 
about  it  afterwards — but,  as  you  know,  I  had  great 
provocation.' 

'  Not  from  me,  I  think.'  Her  eyes  were  upon 
him  now. 

*  No,  no,'  he  admitted,  '  certainly  not  from  you  ; 
but — well,  perhaps  I  may  say  that  I  had  some 
ground  for  thinking  that  you — possibly —  No,  I 
don't  think  I  ought  to  say  that.  At  any  rate,  I 
thought  then  that  I  had.  As  for  that  young  friend 
of  yours — but  he's  nothing.  It's  you  I  want  to 
make  my  peace  with.' 

'  It's  not  difficult,'  she  said.  *  I  tell  you  that  I 
don't  bear  any  malice.  I  bore  none  at  the  time. 
I  wanted  to  go.' 

He  let  her  hand  slide  from  his,  and  plunged 
his  own  into  his  pockets.  ■  I  know  you  did  ;  I 
felt  that  at  the  time.  That  hurt  me  a  good  bit.  I 
had  come  to  rely  upon  you  so  much — oh,  for  every 
mortal  thing.  I  expect  the  whole  place  has  gone 
to  the  devil  now.  You  had  your  hand  on  the 
tiller,  by  Jove  !    You  kept  a  straight  course.     You 


INGRAM'S  IDEA  315 

see,  I'd  got  into  the  way  of  thinking  we  were — 
married,  don't  you  know,  and  all  that — ' 

*  I  think  you  had,  indeed,'  she  said.  He  saw 
her  wry  smile. 

4 1  know  what  you  mean  by  that.  You  mean, 
if  that's  marriage — many  thanks  !  Well,  my  dear, 
all  I  can  say  is,  You  were  absolutely  wrong.  It 
was  not  marriage — it  never  had  been,  and  you  know 
it  couldn't  have  been.  But  if  it  had  been,  Sancie, 
you'd  have  been  as  right  as  rain.  You  know  you 
would.  Your  own  place  —  everything  to  your 
hand — Society — all  that  kind  of  thing.  Why, 
you'd  never  have  thought  it  amiss  in  me  to  go  off 
tiger-shooting  for  a  bit.  You'd  have  had  your 
whack  of  travelling,  playing  the  grass  widow  ; 
you'd  have  entertained,  had  all  sorts  of  little 
games — and  both  of  us  been  all  the  better.  No  ! 
But  it  was  just  because  our  relationship  was  so 
infernally  irregular  that  you  felt  those  separations 
— took  them,  if  I  may  say  it,  so  hard.  Depend 
upon  it,  that  was  it.' 

Her  lip  curled  back,  though  she  said  nothing. 
She  wondered  if  he  had  always  been  quite  so 
fatuous  as  this,  quite  so  sublimely  unhumorous. 
If  he  had,  what  under  heaven  had  she  been  about  ? 
That  she  could  have  believed  this  smug  cockscomb 
to  have  loved  her — to  have  been  capable  of  any- 
thing but  hunger  and  thirst  for  her — incredible  ! 
It  made  her  out  precisely  as  fatuous  as  he.  And 
yet  she  said  nothing.  With  the  likes  of  him 
nothing  seemed  worth  doing  except  to  forget  him. 

And  she  was  to  marry  him,  to  live  in  his  house, 
to  see  him  daily — ah,  and  more  than  that ;  and  yet 


3i6  REST  HARROW  book 

she  said  nothing  of  what  her  curled-back  lip  ex- 
pressed. She  was  in  the  presence  of  her  fate,  and, 
as  ever,  was  dumb  before  it.  To  make  him 
shrivel  under  scorn,  to  wind  her  tongue  about  him 
like  a  whip  till  he  writhed  ;  to  play  the  honest 
woman  and  tell  him  quietly  that  she  did  not  love 
and  had  nothing  more  to  say  to  him  ;  or  to  ask 
him  urgently  for  release — she  did  none  of  these 
things  :  none  of  them  entered  her  head.  She  had 
never  shirked  the  apportioning  of  the  Weaving 
Women.  Destiny  was  unquestionable.  She  felt 
that  she  abhorred  Ingram.  What  she  was  to 
suffer  from  him  she  knew  but  too  well.  And  yet 
she  knew  also  that  she  was  going  to  marry  him,  to 
be  neglected  by  him,  put  to  scorn,  betrayed.  All 
these  things  she  would  undergo,  because  they 
could  not  be  avoided.  She  was  bound  as  well  as 
gagged.  Her  destiny  was  before  her,  as  her 
character  was  within.  The  one  had  begotten  the 
other.  She  had  sowed,  and  now  she  was  to  reap. 
Her  stony  mind  contemplated  the  harvest,  and 
saw  that  it  was  just. 

Therefore  she  said  nothing,  but  stood  with  her 
foot  on  the  fender,  shading  her  face  from  the  fire 
with  her  thin  hand.  In  this  attitude,  though  able 
to  see  sideways  what  was  coming  upon  her,  she 
stood  nerveless  to  his  approach.  '  Sancie,  my  own 
Sancie,'  he  said,  and  put  his  arm  about  her,  and 
drew  her  bodily  to  his  side.  She  stiffened,  but 
allowed  it. 

4  Dearest  girl,  tell  me  that  you  forgive  me — 
tell  me  that.  I  am  wretched  without  you — I  can't 
go  on  like  this.      It's  not  good  for  me  ;  my  health 


iv  OLD  SPELLS  317 

suffers.  Darling  Sancie,  forgive  poor  old  Nevile. 
He  was  once  your  boy — you  loved  him  so  much. 
For  the  sake  of  old  times,  Sancie,  my  dear  !  ' 

She  could  only  say,  *  I  have  forgiven  you — you 
know  that.  I  have  told  you  so.'  He  pressed  her 
closely  to  him,  feeling  his  urgent  need  to  make  the 
most  of  what  she  had  to  give  him.  Her  apathy 
struck  him  mortally  chill ;  he  wooed  her  the  more 
desperately. 

Holding  her  to  his  heart — an  inanimate  burden 
— he  kissed  her  cold  lips,  her  eyelids,  her  hair  ; 
called  her  by  names  whose  use  she  had  long 
forgotten,  whose  revival  caused  her  pain  like 
nausea.  If  he  could  have  known  it,  this  was  the 
last  way  to  win  her.  It  was  like  pressing  upon  a 
queasy  invalid  the  sweets  which  had  made  him 
sick.  But  he,  remembering  their  ancient  potency, 
seeing  himself  the  triumphant  wielder  of  charms, 
felt  secure  in  them  still  ;  therefore  she  was  his 
darling,  his  hardy  little  lover,  his  Queen  of  Love, 
his  saucy  Sancie,  his  lass.  On  fire  himself  by  his 
own  blowing,  at  last  he  fell  upon  his  knees  and 
clasped  hers  :  ■  Dearest,  most  beautiful,  my  own, 
I  love  you  more  than  ever.  Comfort  me,  be  my 
salvation — I  pray  that  I  may  be  worth  your  while. 
Marry  me,  Sancie,  and  save  my  soul  alive/ 

Honestly,  for  the  moment,  he  believed  himself 
irresistible,  and  so  far  succeeded  with  her  that  her 
disgust  hid  itself  in  a  cloud  of  pity.  She  felt  pity 
for  a  man  abject  at  her  feet,  and  could  speak  more 
kindly  to  him. 

But  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  touch  him. 
Looking  down  at  him  there,  her  eyes  were  softer 


3i 8  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


and  her  lips  took  a  gentler  curve.  '  You  mustn't 
be  down  there,'  she  said.  '  I  don't  like  to  see  you 
there — and  can't  talk  to  you  till  you  get  up.  Let's 
sit  down  and  talk — if  you  will.'  He  rose  obedi- 
ently and  stood  with  heaving  chest,  while  she  drew 
a  chair  to  the  fire  and  seated  herself.  Then  he 
took  to  the  hearthrug,  and  possessed  himself  of 
her  hand. 

*  What  a  cold  hand,  my  dear  !  Oh,  Sancie, 
how  I  could  have  warmed  you  once !  Is  that 
never  to  be  again  ?  Don't  tell  me  so,  for  God's 
sake  ! ! 

1  Oh,  how  can  I  tell ! '  cried  she.  '  Surely  you 
can  understand  me  better  than  that  ?  Do  you  ask 
me  to  forget  everything  that  has  happened  in  eight 
years  ? ' 

*  I  asked  you  to  forgive  me,  my  dear.' 
1  And  I  have  forgiven.' 

1  But  do  you  store  these  things  up  against  me  ? 
That's  not  too  generous,  is  it  ? ' 

*  I  don't  store  anything,'  she  assured  him  ;  '  but 
it  wouldn't  be  honest  of  me  to  pretend  I  am  what 
I  was — once.  I  was  a  child  then,  and  now  I'm  a 
woman.  You  have  made  me  that.  I  am  what 
you  made  me.' 

He  stared  into  the  fire,  dropped  her  hand, 
which  she  instantly  hid  under  the  other. 

*  You  mean  to  tell  me,  then,'  he  said,  '  that  I 
have  made  you  cease  to  care  ?  ' 

She  tried  to  soften  the  verdict.  '  You  seemed 
to  me  not  to  care  very  much  yourself.  You  left 
me  for  a  year  together ' 

*  Once,  my  dear.     I  left  you  for  one  year.' 


iv  COLD  KISSES  319 

'  One  whole  year,  you  know,'  she  replied,  ■  and 
for  other  times  too/ 

*  I  never  ceased  to  love  you/  he  vowed.  *  You 
must  be  aware  how  much  1  depended  upon  you. 
You  were  always  with  me.' 

She  could  have  laughed  at  him.  *  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  the  same  state  of  mind.  During  those 
absences  of  yours  I  learned  to  be  happy  alone — 
and  I  was  happy,  too.' 

This  seemed  horrible  to  him.  ■  I  could  not 
have  believed  it  of  you/  he  said,  aghast.  'You 
must  have  changed  indeed/ 

1 1  have  changed/  she  owned.  He  started  to 
his  knees  and  clasped  her. 

1  Beloved,  I  can  change  you  again — I  am  the 
man  who  had  your  heart.  I  must  do  it — it's  my 
right  as  well  as  my  duty.  Trust  me  again,  my 
own  ;  give  me  your  dear  hand  again — and  you 
shall  see.  If  you  are  changed  for  the  worse,  I  am 
changed  for  the  better.  You  have  redeemed  me. 
What  is  it  they  say  in  the  Bible?  By  your 
stripes  I  am  healed.  Yes,  yes — that's  precisely 
it.  Kiss  me,  my  own  girl ;  kiss  me/  His 
eyes  implored  :  she  stooped  her  sad  head  that 
he  might  kiss  her.  He  strained  upwards  and 
held  her  until  she  broke  away  with  a  sob.  '  Oh, 
leave  me,  leave  me  for  a  little  while,'  she  prayed 
him  brokenly.  '  I  can't  talk  any  more  now  ;  I 
assure  you  I  can't. 

He  begged  her  pardon  for  his  vehemence.  'I'm 
pretty  bad  myself,  you  know.  This  kind  of  thing 
plays  the  deuce  with  a  man's  heart.' 

She  could  thank  him  with  a  woman's  for  this 


320  REST  HARROW  book 

na'fve  assurance.  *  I  don't  doubt  you  for  a  moment,' 
she  said.     *  You  have  been  rather  eloquent/ 

*  Eloquent,  my  dear  !  -  He  raised  his  eye- 
brows. *  You  might  spare  me  congratulations  upon 
my  eloquence.  I  don't  deserve  very  much,  per- 
haps— though  God  knows  I  tried  to  make  you 
comfortable ;  but  perhaps  I  deserve  credit  for 
sincerity.' 

She  was  not  to  be  drawn  that  way.  *  I  don't 
doubt  your  sincerity  in  the  least,'  she  said.  '  But 
I  wish  you  to  allow  for  mine.  I  am  changed,  and 
have  told  you  so.' 

1 1  can  see  that  you  are.  Heaven  knows  that. 
Perhaps  I  deserve  it  :  I  don't  know.  It's  hardly 
for  me  to  talk  about  my  own  points,  is  it? 
Criticism,  from  whichever  side  it  comes,  does  seem 
to  me  out  of  place  in  a  love-scene.  And  you 
found  me  eloquent  in  spite  of  it !  Surely  I  may 
congratulate  myself  upon  that.' 

She  looked  at  him  standing  before  her,  his  arms 
folded  ;  she  showed  him  a  face  too  dreary  to  be 
moved  by  sarcasm.  *  You  may  congratulate  your- 
self on  lots  of  things,  I'm  sure.' 

Annoyance  began  to  prick  him  ;  he  showed 
spirit.  'You  are  tired — and  I  may  have  tired 
you.  I  won't  do  that  any  longer.  I  think  I'll 
go,  if  you'll  excuse  me  to  your  Lady  Maria. 
Sensible  lady,  that.  She  goes  to  sleep.  .  .  .'  He 
took  a  turn  over  the  room,  then  came  back  and 
stood  over  her.  '  1  have  not  had  my  answer  yet. 
I'll  come  for  it  in  a  few  days'  time.  May  I  hope 
you'll  have  it  for  me — say,  to-day  week  ? ' 

1  What  is  the  question  I  have  to  answer  ? '    She 


iv  'SWALLOW  HIM'  321 

looked  up  for  it,  though  she  knew  what  it  was  to 
be  quite  well. 

1  Do  you  wish  it  repeated  ? '  He  was  perfectly 
cool  by  now.  *  I'll  put  it  categorically.  I  have 
wronged  you,  and  wish  to  repair  my  fault  :  will 
you  allow  it  ?  I  love  you  more  than  before  :  will 
you  permit  me  to  prove  it  ?  I  believe  that  I  can 
make  you  happy  :  may  I  try  ?  * 

She  had  scarcely  listened,  and  when  she  an- 
swered him,  did  not  lift  her  head.  '  I  can't  answer 
you  now,  Nevile.     Don't  ask  me.' 

*  I  have  not  asked  you.  I  have  simply  put  my 
questions  fairly.  I  will  come  for  my  answer  next 
Sunday  afternoon.     Good-bye,  Sanchia.' 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  received  hers,  which 
he  kissed.     Then  he  turned  and  left  her  alone. 
•  •  •  •  •  • 

*  I  should  swallow  him,  if  I  were  you/  was  Lady 
Maria's  spoken  reflection  upon  what  her  young 
friend  was  able  to  tell  her.  ■  I  should  swallow  him 
like  a  pill.  You  won't  taste  him  much,  and  he'll 
do  you  worlds  of  good.  The  world  ?  I'm  not 
talking  of  the  world.  I  never  do.  He'll  put  you 
right  with  yourself.  That's  much  more  to  the 
point.  He's  in  love  with  you,  I  believe.  From 
what  you  tell  me,  that's  new.  You  suppose  that 
he  was  in  love  with  you  before.  I  do  not.  He 
was  in  love  with  himself,  as  you  presented  him. 
Most  men  are.  Now  you  are  to  occupy  that 
exceedingly  comfortable  position  of  a  woman  out 
of  love  with  her  husband,  extravagantly  beloved  by 
him.  Next  to  being  a  man's  mistress  there's  no 
surer  ground  for  you  than  that,  with  respectability 

Y 


322  REST  HARROW  bookiv 

added,  mind  you.     No  mean  addition.     Take  my 
advice,  my  dear,  and  you  won't  regret  it/ 

But  Sanchia  knew  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
that  Ingram  was  not  in  love  with  her.  He  wanted 
her — restored  to  his  collection. 


IX 

On  the  Monday  morning,  after  a  night  of  broken 
sleep,  she  received  a  letter  from  her  mother. 

c  My  dear  Child,'  Mrs.  Percival  wrote, '  I  met  Nevile 
Ingram,  quite  unexpectedly^  on  Saturday  evening.  Yester- 
day he  called  here,  after  he  had  seen  you  in  the  house 
where  you  choose  to  remain.  Our  interview  was  natu- 
rally distressing,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  feel  sure  that  you 
could  spare  me  a  third.  I  need  not  remind  you  of  the 
first. 

c  But  I  feel  bound  to  own,  from  what  I  could  learn  from 
him  of  his  discussion  (as  I  must  call  it)  with  you,  that  I 
am  most  uneasy.  If  I  were  to  say  unhappy ,  tho'  it  would 
be  less  than  the  truth,  you  might  accuse  me  of  exaggera- 
tion. That  I  could  not  bear.  Therefore,  let  "  uneasy  " 
be  the  word.  Is  it  possible,  I  ask  myself,  that  my  youngest 
child — my  latest-born — can  find  it  in  her  heart  to  torture 
the  already  agonised  heart  of  her  mother  ?  I  put  the 
question  to  you,  Sanchia,  for  I  am  incapable  myself  of 
finding  the  answer.  I  blush  to  write  it — but  such  is  the 
terrible  fact.  I  can  only  beg  you  to  put  me  out  of  sus- 
pense as  gently  as  may  be.  I  am  growing  old.  There 
are  limits  to  what  a  grey-haired  mother's  heart  can  bear. 

cMr.  Ingram's  proposals  towards  a  settlement  of  the 
untold  ruin  he  has  wrought  in  a  once  smiling  and  con- 
tented household  were  (I  must  say)  liberal.  That  they 
were  all  that  they  should  be,  I  must  not  declare — for  how 
could  that  ever  be  ?     He  put  himself,  however,  and  his 

323 


324  REST  HARROW 

extremely  handsome  fortune  unreservedly  in  my  hands 
and  those  of  your  father,  who  was  not  present  at  our 
interval.  He  was  resting,  I  believe — his  own  phrase. 
Philippa  came  into  tea,  with  her  trusty,  honourable 
Tertius,  and  was  more  than  gracious  to  N.  You  know 
her  way.  She  stoops  more  charmingly  than  any  woman  I 
have  ever  met.     Her  manners,  certainly,  are  to  be  copied. 

c  His  position  in  the  county — I  return  to  Nevile — I 
need  not  dwell  upon.  It  may  be  brilliant.  A  Justice  of 
the  Peace  at  thirty-two  !  I  leave  you  to  imagine  what 
he  might  become,  building  upon  that,  if  he  were  blessed 
with  the  loving  companionship  of  a  tender,  chaste  and 
Xtian  wife.  Such  an  one  could  guide  him  into  Green 
Pastures — and  such  an  one  only.  Secure  in  the  gratitude 
of  his  inferiors,  the  respect  of  his  peers,  reconciled  to  the 
Altar,  and  his  God,  one  sees  before  Nevile  the  upright, 
prosperous,  honoured  career  of  an  English  Gentleman. 
There  is  no  higher,  I  believe.  But  it  is  clear  to  all  of 
those  who  truly  love  you,  my  child,  that  you  only  can 
ensure  him  these  advantages.  He  is  sincerely  penitent 
now — of  that  I  am  sure.  Who  can  tell,  however,  what 
relapse  there  may  be  unless  he  is  taken  in  hand  ? 

'You  have  been  his  curse,  but  may  be  his  Blessing. 
You  have  my  prayers. 

'  I  beg  my  compliments  to  Lady  Maria  Wenman  if 
she  condescends  to  recognise  the  existence  of — Your 
affecte  Mother, 

c  Catherine  Welbore  Percival. 

'  P.S. — Nevile  assures  me  that  his  cousin,  the  Bishop, 
would  perform  the  rite.  This  would  be  a  great  thing. 
One  must  think  of  N's  position  in  the  county.' 

*  Venus,  wounded  in  the  side  .  .  . '  is  the 
opening  line  of  an  old  poem  of  Senhouse's,  one  of 
those  '  Greek  Idylls '  with  which  he  made  his  bow 
to  the  world — old  placid  stones  illuminated  by 
modern  romantic  fancy;  nursery-rhyme  versions, 


iv  SANCHIA  STRICKEN  325 

we  may  call  them,  of  the  myths.  *  Venus,  wounded 
in  the  side,'  recounts  how  the  Dame,  struck  by  a 
shaft  of  her  son's,  ran  moaning  from  one  ally  to 
another  seeking  Pity,  the  only  balm  that  could 
assuage  her  wound.  To  the  new  lover,  to  the 
old,  to  the  fresh- wedded,  to  the  long- mated : 
from  one  to  the  other  she  ran — hand  clapt  to 
throbbing  heart.  None  could  help  her.  *  Pity  ! 
What's  that  ? '  cried  the  first.  ■  I  triumph  :  re- 
joice with  me.  Is  she  not  like  the  sun  in  a 
valley  ? '  The  second  cursed  her  for  a  procuress. 
The  bride  stirred  in  her  sleep,  and  whispered, 
'  Kiss  me  again,  Beloved/  As  for  the  fourth,  he 
said,  ■  All  my  Pity  was  for  myself.  It  is  gone  ; 
now  I  am  frost-bound.'  Venus  wept :  Adonis 
healed  the  wound. 

Sanchia,  reading  long  afterwards,  saw  in  it  a 
parallel  to  her  case,  when  she,  stricken  deep,  ran 
about  London  ways  for  a  soothing  lotion.  She 
saw  herself  trapped  ;  felt  the  steel  bite  to  the 
bone.  Tears  might  have  helped  her,  but  she  had 
none  :  pray  she  could  not,  nor  crave  mercy.  It 
was  not  Ingram  who  held  her  caged,  but  Destiny ; 
and  there's  no  war  with  him. 

She  thought  of  Vicky,  of  Melusine.  Their 
kisses  would  have  been  sweet,  but  she  knew  what 
they  would  say.  Melusine's  sideways  head,  her 
sighed,  *  Dearest,  how  sad  !  But  life  is  so  serious, 
isn't  it  ? '  She  saw  the  gleam  in  Vicky's  eyes,  and 
heard  her  *  Dear  old  Sancie,  how  splendid  !  Now 
you'll  be  all  right.'  Then  she  would  clasp  her 
round  the  neck  and  whisper  in  her  ear,  *  Do  make 
me  an  aunt — I  shall  adore  your   baby.     Quick, 


326  REST  HARROW  book 

darling ! '  She  turned  her  back  on  Kensington 
and  Camberley,  and  went  into  the  City,  to  The 
Poultry,  with  her  griefs. 

Poor  Mr.  Percival's  rosy  gills  and  white 
whiskers,  his   invariable  *  Well,  Sancie — well,  my 

dear,  well,  well '  called  her  home.     She  ran 

forward,  clung  to  him,  and  lay  a  while  in  his  arms, 
short-breathing,  breathless  for  the  advent  of  peace. 
To  his  'What  is  it,  my  love?  Tell  your  old 
father  all  about  it,'  she  could  only  murmur,  l  Oh, 
dearest,  what  shall  I  do  ? '  He  urged  her  again  to 
tell  him  what  the  matter  was — *  What  has  hurt 
you  ?  Who  has  dared  to  hurt  my  darling  ?  Show 
me  that  scoundrel — '  but  she  was  luxuriating  in 
new  comfort  and  would  say  nothing.  Into  her 
false  peace  she  snuggled  and  lay  still ;  and  the 
honest  man,  loving  her  to  be  there,  let  her  be. 

Presently  she  opened  her  weary  eyes,  looked 
up,  and  smiled,  then  snuggled  again.  He  led  her 
to  his  office  chair,  and  took  her  on  his  knee. 
1  Lie  here,  my  bird,  make  your  pillow  of  my 
shoulder.  That's  more  comfortable,  I  hope. 
Why,  Sancie,  you've  not  been  here,  in  my  arms, 
since  you  hurt  your  foot  at  Sidmouth  deuce 
knows  how  long  ago — and  I  kissed  it  well !  Do 
you  remember  that  ?  Ah,  but  I  do.  I'm  a  foolish 
old  chap,  with  nothing  else  to  think  about  but  my 
girls.  And  you're  the  only  one  left — the  only 
one,  Sancie.  And  I  always  loved  you  best — and 
behaved  as  if  you  were  the  worst — God  forgive 
me  ! '  She  put  her  hand  up  and  touched  his 
cheek.  '  Hush,  dearest.  We  don't  talk  about 
that.' 


iv  BLANKNESS  OF  PAPA  327 

*  No,  no,  my  darling — that's  over,  thank  God. 
You  have  forgiven  me,  I  know — my  great-hearted 
Sancie.  Now,  if  you  feel  stronger,  tell  me  all 
your  troubles/     She  murmured  what  follows. 

■  He  came  to  see  me.     Nevile  came/ 

c  I  know,  my  love.     Your  mother  told  me/ 

*  She  wrote  to  me.  Rather  a  dreadful  letter. 
She's  on  his  side — she  talks  about  his  position  in 
the  county/ 

*  I  daresay,  I  daresay.  But  you  know,  your 
mother  thinks  a  great  deal  of  that  kind  of  thing. 
She  says  we  owe  a  deal  to  our  station,  you  know. 
There's  something  in  it,  my  dear.  I'm  bound  to 
say  that/ 

*  Papa,  he — wants  me  again.  He  thinks  he 
does.' 

'  Oh,  my  dear,  there's  no  doubt  about  that — 
none  at  all.  He  proposes — well,  it's  carte  blanche  ; 
there's  no  other  word  for  it.  A  blank  cheque, 
you  know.  We  must  do  Master  Nevile  justice. 
It  is  the  least  he  can  do ;  but  he  does  it.' 

1  What  am  I  to  do,  papa  ? '  The  poor  gentle- 
man looked  rather  blank. 

*  Do,  my  dear  ?  Do  ?  '  He  puzzled  ;  then,  as 
the  light  broke  on  him,  could  not  help  showing 
his  dismay.  *  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say — 
Oh,  my  child,  is  that  what  you  mean  ? ' 

She  clung  to  him  convulsively,  buried  her  face. 

1  God  help  us  all ! '  His  thought,  his  pity,  his 
love  whirled  him  hither  and  thither.  He  shivered 
in  the  blast.  I  'Pon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  how 
we  shall  break  it  to  your  mother.  I  don't,  indeed/ 
He    stared   miserably,  then   caught    her  to  him. 


328  REST  HARROW  book 

*  It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  like  this — my 
child  ;  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart.  Sancie,  what  are 
we  to  do  ? ' 

She  sat  up,  and  brushed  her  dry  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief.  '  I  know.  There's  nothing  to  do. 
It's  my  fate/ 

This  was  rather  shocking  to  old  Mr.  Percival, 
who  shared  the  common  opinion  of  matrimony, 
that  it  should  be  marked  by  champagne  at  lunch- 
eons. It  was  a  signal  for  rejoicing — therefore 
you  must  rejoice.  White  stood  for  a  wedding  all 
the  world  over,  black  for  a  funeral.  To  go 
scowling  to  church,  or  tearless  to  the  cemetery, 
was  to  fail  in  duty. 

'  We  mustn't  look  at  it  like  that,  my  darling. 
I  don't  think  we  ought,  indeed.  Fate,  you  know  ! 
That's  a  gloomy  view  of  an  affair  of  the  sort.  I 
don't  pretend  to  understand  you,  quite,  my  love. 
You  see,  a  year  or  two  ago,  you  would  have  asked 
nothing  better — and  now  you  call  it  fate.  Oh, 
my  dear ' 

She  could  not  have  hoped  that  he  would  under- 
stand, and  yet  she  felt  more  like  crying  than  at 
any  time  yet.  *  My  heart  is  cold,'  she  said.  *  It's 
dead,  I  think.' 

He  echoed  her,  whispering,  '  Not  dead,  Sancie, 
not  dead,  my  child.  Numbed.  He'll  warm  it 
asleep,  he'll  kiss  it  awake.     He  loves  you.' 

She  moaned  as  she  shook  her  head.  '  No,  no. 
He  wants  me — that's  all.' 

*  Well,  my  dear,'  pleaded  good  Mr.  Percival, 

*  and  so  he  may.  We  do  want  what  we  love, 
don't  we  now  ?     He's  come  to  his  senses  by  this 


iv  INDULGENCE  IS  URGED  329 

time,  found  out  the  need  of  you.  And  I  don't 
wonder  at  it.  You're  a  beautiful  girl,  my  dear — 
you're  the  pick  of  my  bevy.  But  I  must  bring 
back  the  roses  to  those  cheeks — Mildred  Grant, 
eh  ?  Jack  Etherington  used  to  call  you  that : 
he  was  a  great  rose-fancier — old  Jack.  Do  you 
remember  our  tea-party  last  summer  ?  And  how 
happy  we  were  ?  Let's  be  happy  again,  my  lamb  ! 
Come,  my  child,  can't  you  squeeze  me  out  one 
little  smile  ?  You'll  make  the  sun  shine  in  this 
foggy  old  den  of  mine.'  He  pinched  her  cheek, 
peered  for  the  dimple  which  a  smile  must  bring  ; 
then  he  drew  her  closer  to  him  and  whispered  his 
darling  thought  :  '  Shall  I  tell  you  something, 
Sancie  ?  What  your  old  dad  prays  for  when  he's 
by  himself?  I  want  another  grandchild,  my  dear 
— one  I  can  spoil.  I  ought  to  be  a  happy  man 
with  what  I've  got — I  know  that.  But  you  were 
always  the  pet,  my  love  ;  you  know  you  were — 
until,  until — ah,  Sancie  !  And  one  of  yours  ! 
Aren't  you  going  to  indulge  your  old  father? 
He's  only  got  a  few  years  left,  mind  you.  Don't 
want  any  more.  To  see  his  darling  happy,  smiling 
down  on  her  baby — bless  me,  I'm  getting  foolish.' 
He  blinked  his  bravest,  but  had  to  wipe  his 
glasses.  She  rewarded  him  with  a  kiss,  and  did 
not  leave  till  she  could  leave  him  at  ease. 


San chi a,  after  many  nights'  stony  vigil,  decided 
that  she  must  fight  her  beasts  by  herself.  She 
was  going  to  make  her  parents  and  sisters  happy  ; 
she  was  going  through  with  her  bargain  ;  but 
there  was  no  need  to  tell  them  any  more  about  it. 
In  her  hard  mood  she  told  herself  that  that  was 
the  only  wear.  If  she  should  be  wept  over,  she 
might  well  recant.  When  the  fatal  word  was 
once  spoken,  she  would  write  to  her  mother — that 
was  all  that  she  could  do.  For  the  same  reason — 
that  she  dreaded  a  tender  moment — she  did  not 
go  to  church  with  her  griefs.  The  Gods  there 
were  too  human — the  Man  of  Sorrows,  the  Mother 
with  the  swords  in  her  bosom.  It  was  Destiny 
that  had  her  by  the  heel.  As  ye  sow,  ye  shall 
reap.  Vaster  gods,  heartless,  blind,  immortal 
shapes,  figuring  the  everlasting  hills,  were  her 
need.  She  was  going  to  her  fate,  because  the 
Fates  called  her.     There's  no  war  with  them. 

There  had  been  one  who  would  have  had  it  all 
out  of  her  in  a  trice.  But  he  was  remote,  a  part  of 
her  childhood.  She  hardly  called  him  to  mind  at 
this  hour.  It  was  dangerous  work  to  think  of 
him,  she  knew — and  her  old  fortitude  stood  by 
her,  which  said,  Turn  your  mind  resolutely  away 

330 


book  iv  SHE  SIGNS  331 

from  that  which  may  influence  your  judgment. 
Senhouse  was  not  a  stoic  ;  he  was  an  epicurean, 
she  now  considered.  She  wanted  something  flintier 
than  Senhouse.  He  might  have  tried  to  dissuade 
her  ;  but  her  mind  was  now  made  up.  She 
intended  to  marry  Nevile. 

She  breakfasted  alone,  and  immediately  after- 
wards went  upstairs  to  write  her  agreement.  The 
thing  was  to  be  gone  through  with,  and  the  sooner 
the  better. 

*My  dear  Nevile,*  she  wrote,  'if  it  can  ever  be 
right  to  marry  without  love,  it  must  be  in  my  case.  I 
don't  blame  you  in  the  least  for  what  happened.  It  was 
as  much  my  doing  as  yours — and  I  still  think  that  I  was 
right.  And  now  I  think  that  it  is  right  to  fulfil  one's 
bargain — as  it  would  have  been  if  I  had  married  you.  If 
I  had  been  married  to  you,  I  should  not  have  left  you 
unless  you  told  me  to  go,  and  I  don't  think  that  I  ought 
to  now.  If  you  really  wish  it,  you  shall  marry  me  when 
you  please,  and  I  will  do  my  duty  by  you  always.  What- 
ever arrangements  you  make  will  suit  me  quite  well  ; 
but  the  less  fuss  we  make  the  better.  I  am  sure  that 
you  will  think  so  too.  Don't  come  to  see  me  for  a  few 
days  if  you  don't  mind.  I  want  to  think. — Yours  affec- 
tionately, Sanchia.' 

It  was  not  a  very  gracious  letter,  it  must  be 
owned.  So  young  and  so  untender  !  One  would 
have  said  that  the  man  must  be  a  courageous 
lover  who  could  take  marriage  on  such  terms  ; 
but  either  Ingram  was  very  much  in  love,  or 
honestly  hoped  to  be  loved  again.  I  incline 
to  the  opinion  of  Bill  Chevenix,  to  whom  he 
showed  it.  ■  Nevile,  old  chap/  he  said,  '  you  take 
her  on  any  terms.     You've  no  idea  how  set  up 


332  REST  HARROW  book 

you'll  feel  by  everybody  saying  youVe  done  the 
square  thing.  I  tell  you  frankly  that  she's  too 
good  for  you.  Look  how  she's  shaped  in  Charles 
Street!  As  if  she'd  been  born  to  it.  And 
never  once — never  once — allowed  to  anybody  that 
she's  been  in  the  wrong.  Not  to  a  soul.  And 
neither  you  nor  I  believe  that  she  has — nor  did  old 
Dosshouse,  or  whatever  his  name  was.'  Ingram 
knew  quite  well  to  whom  he  so  airily  referred. 

i  I  shall  have  landed  that  chap  once  for  all, 
anyhow,'  he  said. 

*  Landed  him  ! '  cried  the  other.  *  Why,  bless 
you,  didn't  you  know?  He  landed  himself  two 
years  after  you  did.      He's  married.' 

1  Married,  is  he  ? '  Ingram  asked,  not  thinking 
of  Senhouse  in  particular.     *  Who  did  he  marry  ? ' 

*  He  married  a  rather  pretty  woman,  a  widow, 
a  Mrs.  Germain.' 

Ingram  looked  sharply  up.  *  I'll  take  my  oath 
he  didn't.  I  met  her  the  other  day.  She's  Mrs. 
Duplessis.' 

Chevenix  stared  at  him.  *  Why,  I  know  the 
chap.  Where  did  you  meet  her  ?  Where  do  they 
live  ? '  he  asked  his  friend. 

But  Ingram  had  other  things  to  think  of,  and 
returned  to  his  letter.  *  I  shall  take  this  as  she 
means  it,  Bill.  She  wants  me  to  go  slow — I  can 
take  a  hint.  She  shall  have  her  head.  When  I 
get  her  down  to  Wanless  we  shall  be  all  right. 
The  place  isn't  fit  to  Jive  in  now,  you  know.  I 
was  up  there  last  week  —  and  found  everything 
going  to  pot.  Not  a  horse  fit  to  ride — not  a 
sound  one  amongst  'em.     Plantations  all  to  pieces 


iv  SHE  FACES  THE  FATES  333 

— gardens — tenants  in  arrears — oh,  beastly  !  She'll 
have  it  all  to  rights  in  no  time,  and  she'll  simply 
revel  in  it.  She'll  come  round — you  leave  that  to 
me.     If  /  can't  get  a  girl  round  I  ought  to.' 

Chevenix  listened,  and  judged.  He  knew  his 
Ingram  pretty  well,  and  took  his  confidence,  like 
his  confidences,  for  what  they  were  worth.  *  Where 
did  you  say  that  the  Duplessis  lived  ? ' 

1 1  think  she's  in  a  hotel.  It  might  be  Brown's. 
I  believe  it  is  Brown's.    What  d'you  want  her  for  ? ' 

*  Think  she  knows  some  of  my  people,'  said 
Chevenix,  and  presently  took  himself  out  of  the 
Coffee  Tree  Club. 

But  Sanchia,  her  day's  work  done,  went — not  to 
church,  but  to  Bloomsbury.  Entering  the  portals 
of  the  Museum,  she  swam  to  the  portico,  full  of 
her  cares.  But  smoothly,  swiftly,  she  went,  with 
that  even,  gliding  gait  peculiar  to  her  kind,  which 
has  precisely  the  effect  of  a  swan  breasting  the 
stream.  Past  the  door,  she  turned  to  the  left,  not 
glancing  at  the  aligned  Caesars,  scarcely  bowing  to 
Demeter  of  the  remote  gaze.  In  that  long  gallery, 
where  the  Caryatid  thrusts  her  bosom  that  her 
neck  may  be  the  prouder  to  the  weight,  she  saw 
the  objects  of  her  present  pilgrimage  —  beaten, 
blind,  and  dumb,  immovable  as  the  eternal  hills, 
the  Attic  Fates  ;  and  before  them  at  gaze,  his 
arms  folded  over  his  narrow  chest,  Morosine  the 
Pole. 

Whether  she  had  sought  him  here  or  not,  she 
did  not  falter  in  her  advance.  Smoothly,  swiftly, 
and  silently  she  came  to  him  and  stood  by  his  side. 


334  REST  HARROW  book 

He  turned  his  head,  looked  sharply  at  her  pale  face 
and  sad  eyes,  then  resumed  his  meditation  before 
the  Three.     Neither  of  them  had  a  care  to  speak. 

Presently  Morosine  said,  '  I  knew  that  you 
would  be  here/  He  kept  his  face  towards  the 
mystery,  and  so  did  she  when  she  echoed  him. 
1  Did  you  know  that  ?     You  know  me,  I  think.' 

'  I  believe  that  I  do.  You  have  come  here  for 
strength.     You  will  get  it.' 

Ruefully  enough  she  answered,  '  I  wish  I  could 
believe  that.' 

1  You  have  it  in  you  already.  These  great 
ladies  will  call  it  out.  I  wish  you  had  been  here, 
say,  the  day  before  yesterday.  They  might  have 
helped  you.' 

1  But  they  did  help  me,'  she  said.  *  They  were 
with  me.  I  remembered  what  we  had  talked  about 
before  them/ 

He  nodded  his  head.  '  I  had  intended  that  you 
should.     I  was  rightly  inspired/ 

' Without  them/  she  went  on,  '  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done.  It  seems  absurd  to  say 
so,  but ' 

He  interrupted.  '  It's  not  absurd  at  all — to 
you  and  me.  If  it's  absurd,  then  Art  is  pastry- 
cook-stuff: sugar  and  white -of- egg.  The  man 
who  fashioned  these  things  had  walked  with  God. 
Here  are  his  secrets,  revealed  to  you  and  me.' 

She  followed  her  own  thoughts,  not  his.  'I 
came  to-day  because  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I 
wanted  them  to  confirm  me — to  say  that  I  was 
right.  If  you  weren't  here,  I  should  go  up  to 
them  and  whisper  to  them,  as  I've  seen  women  do 


iv  MOROSINE  ORACULAR  335 

to  the  Madonna  abroad.  I  should  tell  them  every- 
thing/ 

He  looked  at  her  keenly.  *  Do  it  now.  I'll 
leave  you/ 

She  smiled  faintly.  ■  No,  don't  leave  me.  I 
couldn't  do  it  now.    But  I  meant  to  when  I  came  in/ 

I  You  didn't  think  that  I  might  be  here  ? '  He 
watched  her. 

*  No.  I  remember  that  you  said  we  were  to 
meet  on  Thursday.  And  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
think  of;  I'm  in  great  trouble/ 

I I  know  you  are/  he  said.  *  I  fear  to  be  im- 
pertinent ;  but  if  I  can  help  you ' 

She  gave  him  a  grateful  look.  Her  trouble  was 
very  real,  and  made  almost  a  child  of  her.  ■  I 
should  value  your  advice.  It  would  help  me  to 
have  it — even  if  it  couldn't  change  my  intentions.' 

*  You  shall  have  it,  assuredly,'  he  said.  *  Shall 
we  find  a  seat  ? ' 

*  No,  no.  I  would  rather  stop  where  we  are. 
Perhaps  they'll  hear  us/  They  looked  at  each 
other  and  smiled  at  a  shared  sentiment. 

1  Tell  me,  then,'  he  said. 

1  He  wants  me  to  marry  him/  she  said  hurriedly, 
*  and  I  think  that  I  must.  All  my  people  wish  it, 
and  my  friends — I  mean  those  who  have  known 
me  for  a  long  time.  I  don't  mind  very  much 
about  most  of  them  ;  but  one  of  my  sisters — 
Vicky — who  was  always  my  closest  friend,  expects 
it — and  it  would  break  my  father's  heart  if  I  did 
not  do  it.  The  others  don't  count  ;  but  those  two 
do.  And  there  are  other  things — one  other  person 
who  would  think  I  am  doing  right.' 


336  REST  HARROW  book 

*  Would  you  ' — Morosine  spoke  slowly,  address- 
ing the  statues — *  would  you  consider  the  possi- 
bility of  marrying  any  one  else  ? ' 

She  spoke  as  one  in  a  trance.  '  No — I  couldn't 
— I  shouldn't  dare.  Besides,  there  is  no  possibility 
— there  would  be  Papa  and  Vicky  again.  That 
would  never  satisfy  them.  And  then  I  feel  that 
it's  my  punishment — if  I  deserve  punishment,  as 
they  all  imply  that  I  do.  At  any  rate,  it's  part  of 
my  bargain.  I  began  this  thing,  and  I  must  go 
on  with  it,  at  all  costs  to  myself.  I  mustn't  think 
of  myself  in  it  at  all.  I'm  only  part  of  the  world's 
plan  ;  but  I  happen  to  know  that  I  am  ;  and  so  I 
must  go  where  I  am  called  to  go.  I  must  follow 
my  Destiny,  just  as  I  did  at  first.  That  time  I 
followed  it  against  everybody's  opinion  ;  this  time 
I  must  follow  against  my  own  will.  Don't  you 
agree  with  me  ? ' 

Morosine  reflected  in  silence.  Then  he  said, 
1  Yes,  I  agree  with  you.  I  recommend  you  to 
follow  your  determination.' 

Her  eyes  looked  blankly  at  him  ;  for  the  first 
moment  he  thought  her  disappointed,  but  he 
corrected  his  impression  in  the  second. 

c  I'm  glad  you  agree  with  me,'  she  said.  ■  I 
should  have  been  disappointed  if  you  hadn't.' 

He  smiled.  *  You  are  stronger  than  you  think. 
You  can  suffice  to  yourself.  But  I  hope  that  I 
shall  never  disappoint  you.' 

'I  have  no  fear  of  that,'  she  said,  young  again  and 
confident.  She  thanked  the  Immortal  Three  with  her 
eyes,  and  turning  to  Morosine,  asked  him, c  Shall  we 
go  ? '    They  went  together.    Passing  the  Demeter  of 


SANCHIA  TO  SENHOUSE         337 

Cnidos,  her  swinging  hand  touched  his.  He  held 
his  breath.  Her  face,  sharply  in  profile,  was  as 
pure  and  pale  as  a  silver  coin.  Her  breast  held 
her  secret.  To  her  own  heart  she  voiced  the  cry, 
1  Have  I  done  well,  dear  one  ?  Have  I  done  well  ? 
Do  you  approve  of  me  ?  Do  you  ? '  It  may  be 
that  Senhouse  heard  her  in  his  Wiltshire  hills. 


XI 

Nevile  Ingram  was  capable  of  fine  ideas,  we  have 
seen,  and  could  sometimes  carry  them  out.  He  had 
had  a  moment  of  generosity,  with  Sanchia's  letter 
in  his  hand,  and  held  in  the  main  to  his  expressed 
intentions.  When  he  went  to  see  her,  at  the  end 
of  three  rigorous  days,  he  behaved  like  a  gentleman. 
She  entered  the  room  where  he  awaited  her,  pale 
for  his  embrace  :  he  came  to  meet  her,  put  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and,  stooping,  kissed  her 
lightly.  '  My  dear/  he  said,  c  I'll  deserve  you 
yet '  ;  and  he  really  meant  it.  She  was  touched, 
and  quite  kind  to  him.  He  exhibited  his  version 
of  her  surrender. 

'  We're  friends,  eh  ?  We  know  each  other  of 
old,  have  no  surprises,  and  can  take  raptures  for 
granted.  That's  your  notion,  1  fancy?  It's  not 
mine,  but  I'll  be  thankful  for  what  you  give  me, 
and  it  shall  be  my  fault  if  you  find  me  backward 
when  you're  ready.  Bygones  are  bygones,  then  ? 
We  make  a  new  start  ? 

She  sat  staidly  under  his  gaze,  not  aware  at  the 
moment  that  his  steel-blue  eyes  searched  her  avidly 
for  a  hint  of  more  than  he  stated.  '  So  far  as  I  am 
concerned — certainly,'  she  said.  '  I  shall  never 
unlock  any  cupboards.' 

338 


book  iv        INGRAM  IS  GENEROUS  339 

1  Better  to  burn  the  contents,  perhaps/  he 
laughed.  '  I  tell  you  fairly,  I  had  rather  they 
were  cleared  out.  Now,  I'll  confess  to  anything 
you  please  to  ask  me.  That's  a  firm  offer.'  He 
would  probably  have  done  it,  but  she  told  him 
that  she  had  no  questions  to  put.  *  Very  well,  my 
dear,'  he  said.  ■  Have  it  as  you  will.  It's 
sublime  of  you — but  it's  not  love.  If  you  don't 
want  to  know  it's  because  you  don't  care.' 

*  No,  indeed,'  she  sighed,  with  such  conviction 
that  he  was  stung. 

'  Hang  it  all,  Sancie,'  he  cried,  *  you  can't  have 
known  me  for  eight  years  without  feeling  some- 
thing.' She  looked  up  at  him,  and  he  saw  that 
her  eyes  were  full. 

4  Oh,  Nevile,'  she  said,  with  a  quivering  lip, 
*  don't  let  us  look  back.  Indeed,  I  can't  do  it 
now.'  He  put  his  arm  round  her  and,  drawing 
her  closer,  kissed  her  forehead.  *  My  pretty  one, 
we  won't.  I  had  much  rather  look  forward. 
The  future  is  to  be  my  affair — if  the  past  was 
yours.'  Then  he  went  away,  and  she  saw  nothing 
of  him  for  two  days.  On  the  second  of  them  he 
dined  with  Lady  Maria,  and  met  some  of  the 
Percivals — the  father  and  mother,  the  Sinclairs, 
and  Mr.  Tompsett-King.  (Philippa  had  declined 
to  come.)  He  behaved  with  great  discretion, 
and  so  continued.  After  a  week  or  ten  days 
of  courtship,  she  could  hardly  believe  that  their 
relations  had  ever  been  interrupted.  His  reliance 
upon  her  was  absolute,  his  confidence  no  less  so. 
He  babbled  of  himself  and  his  concerns  in  the  old 
vein    of  mocking    soliloquy,  careless  whether  she 


34Q  REST  HARROW 


BOOK 


heard  him  or  not.  Now  that  he  had  her  promise, 
he  seemed  in  no  hurry  for  possession.  His  kisses 
were  fraternal,  his  embraces  confined  to  a  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  an  arm  lightly  about  her  waist.  She 
was  inordinately  thankful  to  him,  and  by  a  queer 
freak  of  the  mind,  poured  all  her  gratitude  into 
Senhouse.  She  told  herself  that  but  for  him  she 
would  never  have  brought  herself  to  her  duty  ; 
but  for  him,  therefore,  would  never  have  dis- 
covered how  little  she  had  to  fear.  Here  was  a 
crown  for  her  '  dear  obsequious  head '  :  shutting 
her  eyes  tightly,  she  thought  that  she  could  feel 
his  fingers  putting  it  on,  smoothing  out  her  hair 
so  that  the  circlet  should  fit  closely.  Night  after 
night  she  knelt  to  receive  it.  It  came  as  a  result 
of  prayer. 

The  marriage-announcement,  got  into  the  paper 
by  Mrs.  Percival,  was  accepted  for  what  it  was 
worth.  It  was  partly  the  price  of  her  crown. 
A  few  letters  from  old  friends  were  formally 
answered.  Sanchia  had  never  been  a  free  writer  ; 
nobody  but  Senhouse  had  found  her  letters 
eloquent — he  only  had  been  able  to  feel  the  throb 
beneath  the  stiff  lines.  Her  handwriting,  round 
and  firm,  had  for  him  a  provocative  quality  ; 
it  stung  his  imagination.  He  used  to  sing  her 
1  divine  frugality  of  utterance/  and  protest  that  it 
was  all  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  her  life.  No 
one,  he  had  told  her  once,  but  a  sculptor  could 
embody  her  in  Art — her  chill  perfection,  her 
severity  and  definite  outline.  A  poet  might  not 
dare,  for  he  would  have  to  be  greater  than  love 
itself,  greater  than  the  love  which  inspired   him, 


iv  SENHOUSE  TO  SANCHIA         341 

able  to  put  it  down  below  him,  and  stand  remote 
from  it,  and  regard  it  as  a  speck  in  the  landscape. 

Your  sober  thought,  and  your  pride 

To  nurse  the  passion  you  hold  and  hide, 

he  had  written  of  her  in  his  day.  That  austere 
concealment  of  her  heart,  which  so  impassioned 
him,  chilled  enthusiasm  in  all  others  of  her 
acquaintance.  So  her  letters  were  few,  and  now 
she  was  thankful  enough.  She  herself  wrote  to 
nobody,  and  never  spoke  of  her  future  unless  she 
was  compelled  to  answer  questions. 

Once  a  day,  however,  she  took  out  a  writing- 
block,  and  traced  upon  it  the  words,  ■  My  dear 

Jack,  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you *  or  a  similar 

exordium.  She  got  no  farther.  How  could  she 
tell  him  that  without  telling  him  more  ?  And  how 
tell  him  more  when,  of  her  own  accord,  she  had 
sent  him  about  his  business,  and  set  her  approval 
upon  his  marriage,  or  what  must  be  considered 
his  marriage?  An  instinct  forbade  her.  She 
didn't  reason  with  it  :  her  reason  was  paralysed. 
*  It's  part  of  the  price.  It's  what  he  would  have 
praised  me  for ' — and  she  flew  to  her  text. 

*  A  great  power  is  in  your  thin  sweet  hands,  my 
sweet ;  you  are  in  the  way  of  being  a  great  artist! 
She  looked  at  her  hands,  and  loved  them  for  his 
sake  who  had  loved  them  so  well.  Her  *  thin 
sweet  hands  ! '  Could  one  write  so  of  her  hands 
and  not  love  them  well  ? 

But  the  power,  the  power  that  she  had  !  Hear 
her  rhapsodist.  ■  If  you  can  so  work  upon  your 
delicate  surface  as  to  mould  it  close  to  your  noble 


342  REST  HARROW  book 

soul ;  if  in  the  gallery  of  the  world  you  can  unveil 
yourself  for  a  thousand  fair  of  eyes  to  see,  and 
praise  God  for  the  right  to  see — why,  what  an  artist 
you  are,  and  what  an  audience  you  have !  .  .  . 
Like  a  whiff"  of  thyme  on  a  grassy  down,  like  the 
breath  of  violets  from  a  bank,  or  of  bean-flower  blown 
across  a  dusty  hedge,  some  gentle  exhalation  of  your 
soul  sighed  through  your  body  will  hint  to  the 
passion-driven  wretch  things  innocent  and  quiet. 
The  blue  beam  of  your  steadfast  eyes  may  turn  his 
own  to  heaven ;  a  chance-caught,  low,  sweet  tone  of 
your  voice  may  check  clamour ;  an  answer  may  turn 
his  wrath.  .  .  .  Tou  can  be  picture,  form,  poem, 
symphony  in  one.  .  .  .  Think  of  it,  Sanchia,  before 
you  turn  away.  Think  well  whether  upon  that 
exquisite  medium  you  cannot  express  your  best.' 

She  found  herself  trembling — in  these  days  she 
easily  trembled — as  she  re-read  these  words.  That 
such  a  power  should  indeed  be  hers — and  how 
could  she  fail  to  believe  it  ? — was  inspiration 
enough  to  send  her  to  the  fire.  She  read  no  more, 
but  used  to  sit  shivering,  thrilling  through  every 
fibre  of  her  body,  with  the  strength  of  such 
splendid  praise.  For  whatever  might  be  her  fate, 
splendid  it  was  to  have  been  so  loved,  so  seen,  and 
so  praised.  It  was  well  for  Ingram  that  she  read 
her  old  love-letters — and  extremely  unfortunate 
for  the  writer  of  them,  who  anguished  for  her 
now  in  his  desert  place.  Odd  situation  !  that  the 
love-letters  of  one  man  should  reconcile  her  to  the 
arms  of  another. 

From  Torquay,  where  she  spent  the  Easter 
holidays    with    her    father,    the    two    alone    and 


iv  PAUSE  343 

happily  together,  she  wrote  two  or  three  times  to 
Nevile.  He  was  at  Wan  less,  professedly  getting 
some  order  into  things  there,  and  protesting  to 
her  by  every  word  he  sent  her  upon  the  need  there 
was  of  her  hand  upon  affairs.  There  was  not  a 
word  of  love  used  between  the  pair.  All  the 
love-making,  indeed,  was  done  by  Senhouse,  whose 
master-stroke  was  called  for  by  and  by. 

Towards  the  end  of  April  she  was  alone  in 
Charles  Street,  preparing  the  house  for  Lady 
Maria's  return  from  Rome.  Ingram  was  still 
at  Wanless,  grumbling  through  his  duties  of 
magistrate,  landlord,  and  county  gentleman.  *  They 
seem  to  think  up  here  that  a  fellow  has  nothing 
to  do  but  "  take  the  chair,"  '  he  wrote.  '  I  can  tell 
you  I'm  pretty  sick  of  it,  and  fancy  that  they  will 
be  before  long.  I'm  an  awkward  customer  when 
I'm  bored — as  I  am  now,  damnably.'  She  sent 
him  matter-of-fact  replies,  and  wrote  principally 
of  the  weather. 

The  Pole  continued  his  discreet  and  temperate 
wooing  after  the  plan  he  had  formulated.  He 
strove  to  interest  her  perpetually,  never  left  her 
without  having,  as  he  taught  himself  to  believe, 
impressed  himself  anew  upon  her  imagination. 
Watching  her  as  a  cat  a  mouse,  he  learned  to 
read  her  by  signs  so  slight  that  no  one  who  had 
not  the  intuition  of  a  woman  could  have  seen 
them  at  all.  Unfortunately  for  him,  he  mis- 
interpreted what  he  read.  The  slapdash  Ingram 
thought  all  was  well  ;  Chevenix,  the  more 
observant,  thought  there  was  a  bare  chance ; 
Morosine  alone  could  see  how  her  quivering  soul 


344  REST  HARROW  book 

was  being  bruised,  and  if  he  thought  that  she 
looked  to  him  for  balm,  he  may  be  excused.  She 
was  drowning,  she  held  out  her  hands.  To 
whom,  but  to  him  upon  the  bank  ?  How  should 
he  know  what  shadow  stood  behind  him,  with 
praise  in  his  dim  eyes  for  a  *  dear  obsequious 
head '  ? 

Playing  deputy  to  Senhouse,  little  as  he  guessed 
it,  he  devoted  himself  to  bracing  her  for  the  match, 
having  made  up  his  mind  that  there  was  no  other 
way  of  making  her  happiness  his  own.  His 
mistress  she  might  be,  his  wife  never.  As  he 
read  her,  she  would  keep  the  letter  of  the  law — 
since  the  law  required  it  of  her.  The  rest,  he 
flattered  himself,  might  be  left  to  time  and  him. 
His  present  aim  was  to  interest  and  stimulate  her, 
without  alarming. 

He  counted  greatly  upon  some  sudden 
emotional  stimulus,  which  would  cause  her  to 
fall  to  him  ;  and  one  came,  though  it  had  no  such 
effect. 

The  opera  of  Tristan  and  Isolde^  to  which  she 
was  taken  by  Lady  Maria — where  she  sat  in  his 
box,  by  his  side,  absorbed  in  the  most  sensuous 
expression  of  the  love  -  malady  that  has  ever 
tormented  its  way  out  of  a  poet's  heart — had 
been  a  real  test  of  his  restraint.  He  had  not 
once  met  her  eyes — though  hers,  craving  sympathy 
at  any  hand,  had  sought  his  often  ;  he  had  not 
once  permitted  himself  to  gaze  upon  her  beauty, 
though  it  was  her  beauty,  so  carven,  so  purely 
Greek,  which  had  drawn  him  to  her  from  the  first. 
While  the  great  music  went  sobbing  and  chiding 


STIRRING  MUSIC  345 

through  her  frame,  like  wounded  nightingales,  he 
had  sat  in  the  dark,  with  his  arms  folded,  never 
looking  at  her  fully,  nor  seeking  to  win  a  glance 
from  her  soul  to  his  own.  That  it  stirred  her 
to  the  deeps  he  knew.  He  could  watch  sideways, 
listen  sideways,  both  hear  and  see  that  she  was 
rapt.  Her  quick-heaving  breast,  the  whistle  of 
her  short  breath,  the  strained  line  of  her  head  and 
shoulder — all  this  he  marked  and  stored  without 
a  sign.  Even  when,  on  going  out,  he  had  been 
conscious  of  her  overcharged  heart,  of  her  breast 
full  of  emotion  ;  even  when  she  had  told  him 
under  her  breath  that  she  was  happier,  though  he 
shivered,  he  drew  away.  He  had  nodded  quickly, 
smiled,  blinked  his  eyes.  *  I  was  sure  of  that/ 
was  all  he  allowed  himself  in  the  way  of  intimacy. 
Swift,  fire-consumed,  intensely  sensitive,  subtle- 
minded,  this  was  a  man  who  relished  suggestions 
more  than  things.  He  had  far  rather  deal 
mentally  with  the  lovely  image  of  Sanchia,  as  he 
saw  it,  than  actually  with  the  breathing,  palpitating 
flesh.  To  picture  her  longing,  straining,  trembling 
— to  keep  her  always  so,  always  holding  out  her 
arms,  never  obtaining  what  she  sought  :  his  bliss 
lay  in  that.  He  knew  himself,  after  much 
experience  of  the  sort  ;  he  had  missed  so  often 
by  blundering  in,  that  now  he  dared  not  risk  a 
wreck.  Here  at  last,  he  told  himself,  was  perfec- 
tion :  let  him  look  to  it  that  he  kept  it  at  its 
perfect  poise.  He  must  poise  himself  to  do  that, 
balance  himself  upon  a  knife-edge.  Little  of  an 
ascetic  as  he  was  by  temper,  he  could  train  himself 
to  the  last  ounce  if  the  prize  were  worth  it.     And 


346  REST  HARROW  book 

it  was.  Never  had  musician  had  instrument  more 
sensitive  to  play  upon.  It  seemed  to  him  worthy 
of  a  lifetime  of  preparation  to  have  her  for  one 
moment  of  time  throbbing  in  his  arms. 

So  Morosine  went  into  the  palaestrum,  and 
fasted  with  prayer.  His  sangfroid  through  Tristan, 
and  the  going  out  with  all  its  cry  ringing  in  him, 
and  in  her,  surprised  even  himself,  who  knew 
himself  well.  '  My  friend/  he  thought,  as  he 
stalked  to  his  club,  *  you  have  done  well/ 

But  he  had  not  reckoned  with  the  flinty  core 
which  lay  beneath  her  fair  and  delicate  seeming. 
Her  frugality  of  utterance,  which  charmed  and 
chained  him,  really  implied  no  reserve.  She  did 
not  speak,  because  she  had  nothing  to  say,  did  not 
reveal  herself,  because  she  knew  of  no  mystery. 
She  was  at  once  very  simple  and  very  practical ; 
she  had  healthy  tastes  which  she  desired  to  gratify, 
and  a  deliberate  mind  which  instructed  her  how  far 
she  might  do  so.  Once  in  her  life  those  had  played 
her  false,  when  they  told  her  that  the  pity  she  had  for 
Ingram  was  love,  and  the  need  he  had  for  possession 
of  her  was  her  own  need  to  give  it  him.  She  had 
been  bitterly  mistaken,  and  was  now  so  weary  with 
herself  that  she  seemed  to  have  no  desire  in  the 
world  but  that  of  sleep.  Tristan  and  Isolde, 
drowning  soul  and  body  in  music  which  made  love, 
and  love  which  was  the  heart  of  music,  were  not 
to  be  thought  of  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  The 
Fates  had  a  sterner  way  for  her.  She  was  never 
to  empty  herself  in  a  kiss  or  to  watch  out  the  stars 
with  Jack  Senhouse.  Homing  in  the  carriage  with 
Lady  Maria,  she  denied  him,  like  Peter  his  Lord. 


VISION  347 

1 1  know  not  the  man/  Vaguely  dreaming  at  her 
open  window,  under  the  fire-fretted  roof  of  that 
May  night,  she  suddenly  thought  of  him  again — 
nay,  knew  him  bodily  there,  alone  with  her  under 
the  sky — and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  felt  his 
eyes  upon  her,  seeking  of  her  what  he  had  never 
dared  to  seek,  and  then  his  arms  about  her, 
touching  her  as  assuredly  he  had  never  dreamed  to 
do.  She  had  denied  him  once  too  often,  it  seems. 
Here  was  a  sudden  attack,  a  trick  of  the  sprites. 
She  held  her  breath,  she  trembled,  her  breast 
heaved,  she  shut  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  relaxed 
their  hold  of  each  other.  *  Not  yet,  my  blessed 
one,  not  yet ! '  and  *  Come,  Rose  of  the  World  ! ' 
Thus  they  murmured  to  each  other  and  strove. 
An  expectancy,  the  shiver  and  thrill  of  it,  possessed 
her  ;  she  seemed  to  feel  the  touch  of  a  beloved 
hand,  which  drew  her,  trembling  and  panting, 
closer  and  closer  to  some  high  experience  of  which 
she  had  never  dreamed  before,  to  the  expression  of 
inexpressible  things,  to  a  giving  of  the  utmost,  to 
a  wild  strife  of  emulation  which  of  them  two 
should  give  the  most.  The  dark  was  all  about 
them  like  a  bed — and  closer  he  drew  her,  and 
closer  yet.  For  one  wild  moment  that  endured — 
O  heaven,  they  two  in  love  under  the  stars  !  He 
was  of  the  Open  Country — as  free  as  the  wind. 
Thus  he  would  love  her,  if  he  ever  loved. 
Tristan's  crying  would  be  his — and  Isolde's 
whimper  of  hurt  would  be  her  answer.  Thus,  if 
ever,  she  might  be  loved.  And  then,  if  ever  in 
this  world,  peace  ! 

Shivering  still,  with  the  sense  of  an  arm  still 


348  REST  HARROW  book 

about  her,  of  wild  breath  beating  on  her  cheek, 
she  looked  wonderfully  out  at  the  stars  which  had 
seen  her  possessing.  They  burned  steadily  in 
their  violet  hold — a  million  kindly  eyes  welcoming 
her  to  the  Open  Country.  The  great  town  lay  so 
still  below  that  but  for  the  glare  behind  the  houses, 
which  told  her  that  it  lived,  she  might  have  thought 
herself  enfolded  in  the  hills.  So  sure  she  was  that 
she  had  been  wedded,  she  glanced  swiftly  up  and 
down  the  street,  lest  one  chance  passenger  should 
have  seen  her  naked  soul.  So  a  young  girl,  kissed 
by  her  lover,  will  search  the  emptiness  in  fear. 
Not  a  soul  could  be  seen  ;  Charles  Street  under  its 
lamplight  showed  like  a  broad  white  ribbon  curving 
towards  the  Square,  towards  the  Park.  To  her 
heart  she  whispered,  *  Dearest,  you  may  love  me — 
we  are  alone  under  the  stars ' — and  then  shut  her 
eyes  fast,  and  with  parted  lips  breathed  quick  and 
short. 

Out  of  the  night,  out  of  an  empty  street,  a 
voice  came  up, '  He  loves  you — none  so  well.  He 
lies  out  on  the  down  in  a  white  robe.  He  watches 
for  you  and  waits.  I  have  seen  him,  talked  with 
him  of  you.  Can  you  refuse  such  love  as  his  ? 
Goddess  though  you  are,  you  will  get  no  higher 
love.' 

The  voice  was  very  real.  She  knew  it  well. 
From  the  close  arms  that  held  her,  she  answered 
it.  *  Oh,  Struan,  I  know !  I  knew  before  you 
told  me.  It's  wonderful.  Love  is  a  wonderful 
thing.' 

4  It's  all  we  have  in  the  world.  I  am  here  to 
tell  you  that  he  waits  for  you.     Good-night.' 


iv  VOICE  OF  GLYDE  349 

1  Good-night,  Struan,'  she  said.  '  I'm  quite 
happy  now.' 

She  remembered  afterwards,  with  a  shock  of 
dismay  at  her  selfishness,  that  she  had  never  asked 
Struan  of  his  welfare. 

She  came  to  herself  with  a  shudder  and  en- 
visaged her  circumstance.  She  had  had  ca  rare 
vision,'  like  Bottom  the  weaver — and  that  was  all. 
Jack  Senhouse  had  never  loved  her  so.  To  him 
she  had  been  Artemis,  the  cold  goddess,  or  Queen 
Mab,  whom  no  man  might  take.  He  had  said  so 
often — and  had  looked  it  whenever  she  was  near 
him.  Meantime,  she  was  to  be  married — and 
Tristan  was  unprofitable  provender.  It  had  given 
her  an  indigestion  of  the  mind.  She  would  go 
to  bed. 

That  she  deliberately  did — with  one  ceremony, 
characteristic  of  her  frugality.  She  opened  a  locked 
drawer,  and  looked  at  its  contents.  There  lay 
three  goodly  piles  of  letters,  tied  with  blue  ribbon. 
Each  packet  was  labelled  ■  Jack  to  Me,'  and  dated 
with  beginning  and  ending.  She  contented  herself 
with  looking  at  them,  smiling  wisely  and  thought- 
fully as  she  did  so.  Then,  like  a  child,  not  trusting 
to  her  eyes  alone,  she  looked  at  them  with  her 
fingers  ;  touched  them  delicately  in  turn,  with  a 
caress.  Immediately  afterwards  she  locked  them 
up ;  and  turned  to  her  disrobing.  She  slept 
quietly,  and  went  about  her  affairs  of  the  morrow 
with  a  calmness  that  surprised  her. 

At  a  later  day,  in  a  conversation  which  Morosine 
had  with  her,  he  permitted  himself  a  reference  to 


35o  REST  HARROW  book 

the  Museum.  *  You  go  no  more  ?  They've  done 
their  work — the  Three  ? ' 

She  smiled  upon  him,  looking  up  from  a  little 
blue-covered  book  which  lay  half-cut  upon  her 
lap.  It  had  arrived  by  the  post  that  morning 
without  message,  or  even  inscription.  But  it  was 
dedicated,  she  observed,  "  To  the  Fairest,"  and 
had  smiled  wisely  to  herself,  observing  it.  A 
finger  in  the  book,  she  answered  Morosine.  c  Yes, 
they've  done  their  work.  I'm  much  happier  now. 
I've  thrown  up  my  arms,  you  see.  I'm  drowning.' 
She  suddenly  blushed,  to  remember  her  dream  ; 
and  he  perceived  it. 

'  Drowning  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Drifting  with  the  tide/  she  explained.  '  And 
I  like  it/ 

It  was  on  his  tongue  to  refer  to  Tristan,  but 
— such  was  her  hardihood — she  saved  him  the 
trouble.  *  I  was  fearfully  excited  with  the  opera. 
During  the  performance,  and  after  it.' 

His  heart  beat  high.  c  You  were  not  more  so 
than  I  was,'  he  said,  looking  at  her.  '  I  thought 
of  things  possible  and  impossible.     I  had  a  vision.' 

So  had  she  had  a  vision,  whose  force  was  such 
that  she  could  not  continue  to  talk  of  such  things. 
She  had  flashed  her  eyes  upon  him  vividly  for  a 
moment,  but  was  compelled  to  turn  them  away. 
He  read  in  them  a  wild  surmise  ;  he  thought  that 
she  understood  him  and  was  perturbed  —  per- 
turbed, but  not  displeased.  The  bustling  entry 
of  Chevenix,  unannounced,  prevented  him  from 
pursuing  his  campaign. 

Chevenix  was  gay.      \  Hulloa,  Sancie — this  is 


CHEVENIX  MESSENGER  351 

ripping.  I  say,  I  have  something  frightfully 
interesting  to  tell  you/  Then  he  saw  Morosine. 
1  Hulloa,  Alexis,  is  that  you  ?  Now  we'll  sit  each 
other  out,  and  Sancie  won't  have  her  news/ 

*  But  I  hope  I  shall/  she  cried.  *  I  haven't  got 
a  secret  in  the  world.  Don't  go,  Prince,  please. 
Mr.  Chevenix  shall  tell  you  the  news  too.  I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea.' 

I  It's  something  you  want  to  know  very  badly. 
At  least,  I  should  think  you  did.  It's  not  Nevile's 
address.'     She  took  him  gaily. 

I I  don't  want  to  know  that  at  all,  if  it's  a  new 
one.     I  have  three  already.' 

*  Perhaps,'  said  Morosine,  with  a  friendly  look, 
*  it's  to  cancel  some  of  them.' 

She  held  up  a  book.  c  Is  that  what  you  mean  ? 
Do  look.  SongSy  by  S.  Glyde.  Did  you  mean  to 
tell  me  of  that  ? ' 

Chevenix  stared.  'The  poet  Glyde?  No. 
By  Jove,  though,  not  a  bad  shot.  I  referred,  my 
dear,  to  the  poet  Senhouse.' 

She  received  that  full  in  the  face.  She  paled, 
then  coloured.  Her  heart  leaped,  then  stood  still. 
She  spelt  with  her  blue  eyes,  '  Tell  me.' 

Chevenix  peered  at  her.  *  Thought  I  should 
fetch  you,  my  dear.  The  poet  Senhouse  is  run  to 
ground,  and  I'm  going  to  see  him.     That's  all.' 

It  was  plain  to  Morosine  that  she  was  very  much 
concerned  with  this  intelligence.  She  simply  sat 
there,  staring  at  Chevenix,  shaking,  moving  her 
white  lips.  She  was  as  white  as  chalk  and  her  eyes 
burned  black  in  her  face.  What  on  earth — who 
on  earth ?     He  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him 


352  REST  HARROW  bookiv 

make  it  out.  He  had  never  heard  of  the  man. 
It  was  a  shock  to  him  to  discover — so  soon  we 
flatter  ourselves — that  Sanchia  had  any  reserve  of 
confidence.     He  had  felt  so  sure  of  her  ! 

*  Another  new  poet  ? '  he  asked  her.  She 
recovered  herself,  shook  her  head. 

1  He's  not  new — to  me.  He's  the  greatest 
friend  I  ever  had.'  That  was  all  she  could  say. 
She  turned  to  Chevenix,  her  desire  fainting  in  her 
eyes.  '  You're  going  to  see  him  ?  Oh,  take  me 
with  you  ! ' 

'  Right,'  said  Chevenix. 


BOOK  V 

OF  THE  NATURE  OF  AN  EPILOGUE, 
DEALING  WITH  DESPOINA 


353  2  A 


Her  spirits  on  the  rebound,  her  courage  waving 
in  her  face,  like  the  flag  on  a  citadel,  she  hesitated 
at  nothing.  On  Chevenix'  suggestion  that  they 
must  '  play  the  game  with  NevUe,'  she  told  her 
betrothed  what  she  proposed  to  do.  He  had 
raised  his  eyebrows,  but  said,  '  Why  not  ?  ' 

1 1  thought  you  didn't  love  each  other,'  had 
been  her  answer,  and  he  had  responded  : 

*  Well,  I  have  no  reason  to  dislike  him.  In 
fact,  he  gave  you  to  me,  if  you  remember.'  He 
chuckled  over  the  memory.  *  When  the  thing 
between  us  was  at  its  reddest  heat,  your  man 
came  pelting  up  to  me.  He  had  seen  you,  it 
appears,  and  nothing  would  stop  him.  I  never 
told  you  this  tale,  but  you  may  as  well  have  it 
now.  The  man's  a  lunatic,  you  know.  What 
do  you  think  he  wanted  ?  How  do  you  think  he 
put  it  ?  As  thus  :  "  I  loathe  you,  my  dear  man  " 
— I'm  giving  you  the  substance — "  You  stand  for 
everything  I'm  vowed  to  destroy  ;  but  I  hope 
you'll  marry  her,  and  tie  her  to  you  for  life." 
That  was  his  little  plan.  As  you  know,  I  couldn't 
oblige  him.     He  thought  I  could  ! ' 

She  had  been  staring  out  of  the  window  while 
he  harangued  from  the  hearthrug,  his  favourite 

355 


3S6  REST  HARROW 

post  in  a  room.  At  this  time  she  had  no  eyes  but 
for  the  Open  Country,  or  what  of  it  could  be  seen 
over  the  chimney-pots.  But  at  those  last  words 
she  did  turn  and  look  at  him!  'Why  did  he 
think  you  could  ? ' 

It  was  for  Ingram  then  to  stare.  'Why  did 
he  think  so  ?  My  dear,  I'll  tell  you  why  no  sane 
man  would  have  thought  so,  if  you  insist.  He 
thought  that  as  I  had  lived  alone  ever  since  Claire 
bolted,  I  could  get  a  divorce.  That's  what  he 
thought/ 

Sanchia  pondered  his  reply,  facing  the  window 
again.  Ingram  fidgeted,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  '  Men  don't  live  like  that/  he  said. 
Sanchia  did  not  move.  More  as  if  it  were  to 
satisfy  herself  than  to  credit  him,  she  said,  to  the 
window  and  street  beyond  it,  ?  I  wonder  that  he 
didn't  remember  that  you  would  never  drag  any 
one  into  notoriety  whom  you  had  once — loved.' 
Ingram  grinned. 

'  As  your  man  Glyde  tried  to  drag  you,  my 
dear  !  Well,  that's  one  way  of  accounting  for  old 
Senhouse,  certainly.  I  don't  know  that  that  would 
have  stood  in  the  light,  after  the  way  she  behaved. 
Notoriety  !     She  managed  that  for  herself.' 

1  Then '  she  began,  but  did  not  finish.     She 

stopped,  looked  sharply  about  her,  out  of  window, 
across  the  room,  seemed  to  be  listening  to  some- 
thing, or  for  something.  Then  she  said,  '  I  see.' 
For  the  rest  of  the  evening  she  was  very  quiet, 
burning  in  a  hidden  fire. 

Here  was  Saturday,  and  to-morrow  she  should 


v  TO-MORROW  3S7 

see  him  again — the  man  who  had  loved  her  so 
much  that  he  had  never  kissed  her.  Love  such  as 
that,  rendered  in  kisses,  was  unthinkable.  She 
knew  that  she  must  not  think  of  it,  though  she 
could  not  help  her  dreams.  But  there  was  no 
fear.  The  man  who  had  not  dared  to  kiss  her 
when  he  might  should  find  that  she  was  worthy  of 
such  high  honour. 

Through  the  strings  blew  the  wind  from  the 
south-west.  '  I  love  him — I  shall  see  him  to- 
morrow— I  shall  never  tell  him  so — but  he  will 
read  it  in  my  eyes.  He  never  kissed  me  when  he 
might — he  will  not  do  it  now  when  he  must  not. 
I  am  a  fool,  a  fool,  a  fool !  Thank  God,  I  am  a 
fool  again  ! ' 


II 


'I  fancy/  said  Chevenix,  as  they  breasted  the 
down,  '  that  to  the  candid  observer  we  present  a 
very  pretty  sight.  He's  not  here,  but  I  wish  he 
were.  A  free-moving  young  lady — this  is  my 
idea — a  Diana  of  the  Uplands — wasn't  there  a 
picture  of  the  name  ? — going  to  see  an  emancipated 
party  of  the  Open  Road,  with  a  chain  round  her 
heart,  in  the  custody  of  a  gentleman-friend. ' 

She  took  him  on  his  own  terms.  '  Explain 
your  idea.  What,  for  instance,  is  in  the  gentleman- 
friend's  custody  ?  The  chain  or  the  heart  ?  Be- 
cause, I  assure  you ' 

*  A  truce,'  said  Chevenix,  *  to  your  assurances. 
What  I  mean  is  this.  It's  jolly  decent  of  Nevile 
to  let  you  off.  I  don't  know  how  he  can  bear 
you  out  of  his  sight  after  the  way  he's  behaved.' 

She  was  in  high  spirits.  She  laughed  at  the 
vision  of  Nevile,  deeply  contrite  and  afraid  that 
she  would  find  him  out.  *  I  don't  think  Nevile 
cares  much,  whatever  I  may  do.'  But  Chevenix 
shook  his  head. 

*  You  never  know  where  to  have  Nevile.  What 
says  the  Primer  ?  Timeo  Danaos  —  don't  you 
know  ? ' 

She  pleaded,  Might  they  not  forget  Nevile  out 

358 


bk.  v  ON  THE  DOWN  359 

here  in  the  open  ?  *  Do  you  know,'  she  asked 
him,  *  that  I  haven't  been  out  like  this ' 

*  On  the  loose,  eh  ? '  he  interposed.  She 
nodded. 

1  Yes,  like  this — free  to  do  as  I  like — the  world 

before  me '     She  fronted  the  blue  valley  for  a 

moment,  and  then  turned  to  the  wind — *  and  the 
wind  in  my  face,  ever  since  I  left  Wanless  ? ' 
Then  she  reflected  with  wide  and  wondering  eyes. 
c  And  before  that — long  before.  I  haven't  been 
free,  you  know,  ever  since  I  knew  Nevile.  Oh  !  ' — 
and  she  inhaled  the  spirit  of  the  hour — *  Oh,  I 
could  fall  down  and  hug  the  earth.  Don't  you 
love  the  thymy  smell  ?  I  don't  know  why,  but  it 
always  makes  me  think  of  poetry — and  thai*  She 
lifted  her  rapt  face  to  where,  like  a  fountain  of 
sound,  a  lark  flooded  the  blue.  ■  To  lift  up,  and 
up,  and  up,  to  be  so  lovely  because  one  was  so 
glad  !  Nobody  could  do  that ! — except  Jack,'  she 
added  half  in  a  whisper. 

*  That  old  chap's  not  a  man,'  said  Chevenix, 
*  he's  a  spirit.' 

4  They  used  to  call  him  the  Faun,  at  Bill  Hill, 
where  I  first  met  him,'  she  said.  *  I  fancy  now 
that  I  never  knew  him  at  all.  But  he  knew  all 
about  me.  That's  why  I'm  so  happy.  Nobody 
has  ever  known  me  since — and  it's  such  a  bore  to 
have  to  explain  yourself.  Other  people  seem  to 
think  I'm  extraordinary.  I'm  not  at  all — I'm  the 
most  ordinary  person  in  the  world.  But  he  liked 
me  like  that.' 

Chevenix,  watching  her,  said,  c  He'll  like  you 
like  this,  I  expect.     May  I  tell  you  that  you're  a 


360  REST  HARROW  book 

heady  compound  ?  Do  be  quiet.  Remember 
that  I'm  holding  the  chain.  I  won't  swear  to 
every  link.'  She  laughed,  and  pressed  forward, 
the  wind  kissing  her  eyes. 

They  reached  the  racecourse,  and  had,  behind 
them  and  before,  two  valleys.  Their  road  lay 
now  due  west,  keeping  the  ridge — a  broad  grass 
track  belted  rarely  by  woods  on  the  north,  but 
open  on  the  south  to  hill  and  vale  in  diversity 
of  sun  and  shade,  a  billowy  sea  of  grass  where 
no  sign  of  man  was  to  be  seen.  Sanchia's  heart 
was  so  light  she  scarcely  touched  the  ground. 
She  swam  the  air,  not  flew.  Chevenix  pounded 
in  her  wake. 

c  You  know,'  he  told  her  by  and  by,  '  he's  alone 
here  ?  A  solitary  figure  ?  Doing  the  hermit  ? 
Crying  in  the  Wilderness  ? ' 

She  had  guessed,  but  not  known  that.  Caution 
set  a  guard  upon  her  eyes  and  tongue.  ■  Do  you 
mean — that  he's  always  alone  ?  ' 

1  Bless  you,  yes.  His  lady  couldn't  stick  it. 
She  fled.  But  she's  quite  fond  of  him — in  her 
way.  I  found  out  his  address  from  her.  She  was 
quite  glad  I  was  going  to  see  him.  But  she  never 
goes  herself,  I  believe.  She's  married.  Other 
views  altogether,  she  has.  Or  he  has — her  husband, 
you  know.  It  was  a  rum  business  altogether,  her 
taking  up  with  old  Senhouse.  I  could  have  told 
her  what  would  come  of  that,  if  she'd  asked 
me.  No  malice,  you  know — now.  They're  good 
friends.  Write  to  each  other.  As  a  fact,  she's 
married.  She  was  a  widow.  She  married  a 
man  I   know,    a    chap    in    the    House,   name   of 


THE  HARES  361 

Duplessis.  Sulky  chap,  but  able.  Keeps  her  in 
order.  Old  Senhouse  will  speak  about  it — you 
see  if  he  don't.' 

She  was  full  of  thought  over  these  sayings. 
What  had  he  been  about  when  he  mated  with  a 
woman  of  this  sort  ?  *  A  man  don't  live  like  that,' 
had  been  Nevile's  explanation  of  part  of  his  own 
history.  Was  this  the  meaning  of  her  friend's 
vagary  ?  Would  he  tell  her  ?  She  would  never 
ask  him,  but  would  give  worlds  to  know. 

Presently,  and  quite  suddenly,  as  they  pushed 
their  way,  now  in  silence  broken  only  by  Chevenix' 
cheerful  whistling,  upon  that  backbone  of  a  broad 
hill-country — quite  suddenly  her  heart  leaped,  and 
then  stood  fast.  ■  Look,  look  ! '  she  said  softly. 
1  There's  Jack,  close  to  us ! '  In  a  sheltered 
hollow  some  hundred  feet  below  the  level  at  which 
they  were,  a  hooded  figure  in  pure  white  was 
startlingly  splashed  upon  the  grey-brown  of  the 
dry  hills.  The  peak  of  a  cowl  shot  straight  above 
his  head,  and  the  curtains  of  it  covered  his  face. 
He  sat,  squatting  upon  the  turf,  with  a  lifted  hand 
admonishing.  About  him,  with  cocked  ears,  and 
quick  side-glances,  were  some  six  or  seven  hares, 
some  reared  upon  their  haunches,  some,  with  sleek 
heads,  intent  upon  the  herbage,  one  lopping  here 
and  there  in  quest,  but  none  out  of  range  of  a  quick 
hand.  Above  his  head,  high  in  the  blue,  birds 
were  wheeling,  now  up,  now  down.  Peewits 
tumbling  heavily,  pigeons  with  beating  wings, 
sailing  jackdaws — higher  yet,  serene  in  rarity,  a 
brown  kestrel  oared  the  sky. 

Sanchia's  soft  eyes  gleamed  with  wet.     ■  Saint 


362  REST  HARROW  book 

Francis — and  the  hares !  Oh,  dearest,  have  I 
never  known  you  ? ' 

1  What  a  chance  for  a  rifleman  ! '  said  Chevenix. 
'  That  beats  the  cocks/ 

They  stood  intent  for  a  while,  not  daring  to 
disturb  the  mystery  enacting.  Chevenix  whispered, 
1  He's  giving  'em  church,  to-day  being  Sunday,' 
while  Sanchia,  breathless,  said,  *  Hush  !  hush  ! '  and 
felt  the  tears  fret  a  way  down  her  cheeks.  Presently 
she  put  both  hands  to  her  breast  and  fell  upon  her 
knees.  Chevenix,  not  insensible  to  her  emotion, 
lit  a  pipe.     Thus  he  broke  the  spell. 

*  Go  to  him,  please.  Tell  him  that  I'm  here,' 
she  bade  him,  and  then  turned  away  and  sat  waiting 
upon  a  clump  of  heather.  She  sat,  as  not  daring 
to  look  up,  until  she  heard  his  soft  tread  on  the 
turf.  Then  she  lifted  to  him  her  wet  and  rueful 
eyes. 

His  long  strides  brought  him  close  in  a  second. 
He  was  changed.  Leaner,  browner,  older  than 
she  had  known  him.  And  he  wore  a  strange 
Eastern  garment,  a  hooded  white  robe,  short- 
sleeved  and  buttonless,  made  of  coarse  woollen 
cloth.  He  had  thrown  the  hood  back,  and  it  sat 
upon  his  shoulders  like  a  huge  rolling  collar.  Yes, 
he  was  changed  ;  there  was  mystery  upon  him, 
which  sat  broodingly  on  his  brows.  But  his  eyes 
were  the  same — bright  as  a  bird's,  frosty-kind  as 
a  spring  morning  which  stings  while  it  kisses  you. 
'  Queen  Mab  ! '  he  said.  '  You  ! '  and  held  out 
both  his  hands.  It  was  evident  that  neither  of 
them  could  speak.  She  rose  ;  but  there  was  no 
touching  of  the  hands. 


▼  THEY  MEET  363 

*  And  Peachblossom,  attendant  sprite,'  cried  the 
resourceful  Chevenix,  following  him  up.  *  Don't 
forget  him.' 

*  Puck,  I  think,'  said  Senhouse.  *  Robin  Good- 
fellow.'  He  had  recovered  himself  in  that 
breathing-space.  ■  How  splendid  of  you  both. 
Come  and  see  my  ship.  I'm  in  moorings  now, 
you  know.     I've  cut  piracy.' 

'And  preach  to  the  hares,'  said  Chevenix. 
1  We  saw  you  at  it.     What  does  his  lordship  say?' 

*  His  lordship,  who,  in  spite  of  that,  is  an 
excellent  man,  likes  it.  His  lordship  was  pleased 
to  catch  me,  as  you  did,  at  it,  and  to  suggest  that 
he  should  bring  out  a  party  of  her  ladyship's 
friends  to  see  me  perform.  I  told  him  that  I  was 
his  hireling,  no  doubt,  but  that  my  friends  here 
were  amateurs  who  didn't  care  to  say  their  prayers 
in  public.  His  lordship  begged  pardon,  and  I  bet 
you  he's  a  gentleman.  Nearly  everybody  is,  when 
you  come  to  know  him.' 

Chevenix  revelled  in  him.  *  Still  the  complete 
moralist,  old  Jack  !'  he  cheered.  *  I'll  back  you 
for  a  bushel  of  nuts  to  have  it  out  with  Charon  as 
you  ferry  across.  And  here,  for  want  of  us,  you 
turn  to  the  hares  !  Sancie,  you  and  I  must  get 
season  tickets  to  Sarum,  or  he'll  forget  his  tongue.' 

Sanchia,  overcome  by  shyness,  had  nothing  to 
do  with  this  brisk  interchange.  She  walked 
between  the  contestants  like  a  child  out  with  her 
betters.  Senhouse  led  them  down  the  scarped 
side  of  a  hill  into  his  own  valley  ;  rounding  a 
bluff,  they  suddenly  came  upon  his  terraces  and 
creeper-covered   hut.     The  place  was   a  blaze  of 


364  REST  HARROW 

field  flowers  ;  each  terrace  a  thick  carpet  of  colour. 
In  front  of  them  the  valley  wound  softly  to  the 
south,  and  melted  into  the  folds  of  the  hills  ;  to 
the  right,  upon  a  wooded  slope,  in  glades  between 
the  trees,  goats  were  at  pasture. 

'  Goats  !  Robinson  Crusoe  ! '  Chevenix  pointed 
them  out.  '  Die  mihi,  Damceta^  cuium  pecus  ? 
an  Meliboei  ?     Are  they  yours,  Senhouse  ? ' 

*  I  drink  them,  and  make  cheese.  I  learned 
how  to  do  it  at  Udine  ages  ago.  You  shall  have 
some.' 

Sanchia  saw  them.  The  sun  gleamed  upon 
fawn  and  white,  and  made  black  shine  like  jet. 
Deep  in  the  thickets  they  heard  the  bell  of  one, 
cropping  musically. 

Senhouse  led  them  to  his  verandah,  which  was 
shadowed  from  the  heat,  made  them  sit  on 
mats,  and  served  them  with  milk  and  bread  in 
wooden  bowls  and  trenchers.  He  was  barefooted, 
which  Sanchia  must  by  all  means  be — for  the  day  : 
divining  her,  as  he  only  could,  he  knelt  without 
invitation  and  untied  her  shoes.  '  Stockings  too, 
I'll  bet  you  ! '  was  what  Chevenix  thought  ;  but 
he  was  wrong.  Senhouse  went  into  his  cabin,  and 
returned  with  sandals.  Sanchia  had  taken  off  her 
own  stockings.  They  were  sandals  to  fit  her.  ■  I 
made  them  for  Mary,'  he  explained  ;  '  but  she 
preferred  boots.'  *  Most  of  'em  do,'  Chevenix 
said,  *  in  their  hearts/  and  Senhouse  quietly  re- 
joined, '  So  I've  found  out.' 

Chevenix,  the  tactful,  withdrew  himself  after  a 
civil  interval.     He  said  that  he  should  go  goat- 


FAIRY  DEALINGS  365 

stalking,  and,  instead,  went  for  a  ramble,  well  out 
of  sight.  Then  he  found  a  place  after  his  mind, 
smoked  a  pipe,  and  had  a  nap. 

The  pair,  left  to  themselves,  resumed  with 
hardly  an  effort  their  ancient  footing. 

He  said,  after  looking  long  upon  her,  *  You  are 
changed,  Queen  Mab  ;  you  are  graver  and  quieter 
— but  you  are  yourself,  I  see.' 

1 1  am  not  changed  really,'  she  said.  '  I  love 
all  the  things  I  did.  But  sometimes  one  doesn't 
know  it/ 

He  did  not  appear  to  heed  her,  occupied  in 
his  gentle  scanning  of  her.  ■  You  are,  I  suppose, 
more  beautiful  than  you  were — I  was  prepared  for 
that.     You  have  been  very  much  with  me  of  late.' 

Her  excitement  grew  suddenly  quick.  *  Have 
I  ?     It's  very  odd,  but ' 

*  It's  not  at  all  odd,'  he  said.  '  Nothing  is.  I 
will  tell  you  what  happens.  After  I  go  to  bed — 
which  is  always  lateish — I  feel  you  come  down 
the  slope.  I  am  not  surprised — I  wasn't  the 
first  time.  You  come  in  a  blue  gown,  with  bare 
feet.  I  can't  see  anything  of  you  as  you  come  but 
gleaming  ivory — an  oval,  which  is  your  face — two 
bars  for  your  arms — two  shafts, —  and  your  feet. 
Your  hair  is  loose  all  about  your  shoulders,  and 
close  about  your  face.  It  makes  the  oval  longer 
and  narrower  than  I  see  it  now  ;  your  face  is  fuller 
by  day  than  by  night.  You  come  to  me  out  here* 
where  I  wait  for  you,  and  hold  out  your  hand.  I 
rise,  and  take  it — and  off  we  go.  I  realise  now 
that  I  am  in  the  conduct  of  a  fairy.  I  was  inspired 
when  I  hailed  you — how  long  ago? — as  Queen 


366  REST  HARROW  book 

Mab.  You  show  me  wonderful  things.  Do  you 
know  that  you  come  ? ' 

*  No,  but '     She  stopped,  and  bent  her  head. 

Her  experience  had  not  been  so  simple.     '  I  have 

thought  sometimes '     She  could  not  finish — 

broke  off  abruptly.  There  was  a  beating  pause, 
during  which  neither  of  them  dared  look  at  the 
other.  She  broke  it.  She  asked  him  what  he  did 
out  here  alone. 

'  I  live/  he  said,  *  very  much  as  I  did.  I  read — 
in  three  tongues  ;  I  paint  rarely  ;  I  do  a  great 
deal  of  work.  At  night  I  write  my  book.  And 
then — you  come/ 

1  And  what  is  your  book  ? ' 

*  It  began  as  Memoirs — in  three  volumes,  but 
those  have  stopped.  There  was  plenty  to  say,  but 
after  certain  experiences  which  came  to  me  here — 
singular  enough  experiences — nothing  in  it  seemed 
worth  while.  Now  I  call  it  Despoina,  after  the 
principal  character.  Despoina,  or  the  Lore  of 
Proserpine.' 

'  Who  is  Despoina?'  She  showed  him  that  she 
had  the  answer  already. 

He  looked  at  her,  smiling  with  his  eyes.  *  You 
are  Despoina.' 

'  Oh,'  said  she,  *  I  thought  I  was  Queen  Mab.' 

'  It  is  the  same  thing.  Despoina  means  the 
Lady — the  Lady  of  the  Country.  She  is  a  great 
fairy.     The  greatest.' 

It  was  now  for  her  to  smile  at  him,  which  she 
did  a  little  wistfully.  '  Your  Despoina  is  either 
too  much  fairy,  or  not  enough.  She  does  very 
humdrum  things.      She  has  done  mischief;  now 


v  HER  CONFESSION  367 

she  is  going  to  repair  it.      She  is  going  to  be 
married.  ■ 

He  was  watching  her  quietly,  and  took  her 
news  quietly. 

*  Yes,  so  I  learned.  There  was  a  youth  here 
who  told  me.' 

She  stopped  him,  flushing  wildly.  *  A  youth  ! 
Struan  was  here?     Then  it's  true — it's  true?' 

He  was  quite  calm  under  this  outcry.  '  Yes, 
your  champion  Glyde  was  here.  A  good  fellow 
in  the  main,  but,  Lord  !  what  a  donkey  !  I  think 
I  did  him  good.  He  left  me  a  week  ago.  He 
had  told  me  about  you — found  out  where  you 
lived,  and  what  was  happening.'  She  sat  with 
her  face  between  her  hands,  dared  not  let  him 
see  it. 

Senhouse  resumed  the  question  of  her  marriage. 
■  It  doesn't  matter  what  you  do.  You  are  you. 
So  Ingram  has  forgiven  Master  Glyde,  and 
now ' 

She  lifted  her  pale  face  at  this  name  of  duty. 

1  His  wife  died  a  year  ago  ;  rather  more.  He 
wants  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  think  I  must.' 

'You  don't  want  to?'  She  shook  her  head, 
watching  her  fingers  tear  the  grass. 

'  No,'  she  said,  *  not  in  the  least.  But  I  shall 
do  it.     Don't  you  think  that  I  should?' 

He  thought,  then  threw  his  arms  out.  *  God 
knows  what  I  am  to  say  !  If  the  world  held  only 
you  and  me  and  him — here — fast  in  this  valley — 
I  tell  you  fairly,  I  should  stop  it.'  She  looked  up 
quickly,  and  their  eyes  met.  Hers  were  haunted 
with  longing.     He  had  to  turn  his  head.     'But 


368  REST  HARROW  book 

it  doesn't.  To  me  what  you  intend  to  do  seems 
quite  horrible — because  I  am  flesh,  and  cannot  see 
that  you  are  spirit.  That  is  a  perfectly  reason- 
able reading  of  the  Law,  which  says,  What  I  did 
as  a  child  I  must  abide  as  a  woman.  It's  a  law  of 
Nature,  after  all's  said  ;  and  yet  it  can  be  contra- 
dicted in  a  breath.  It's  one  of  those  everlasting 
propositions  which  are  true  both  ways,  positively 
and  negatively  ;  for  Nature  says,  That  is  my  rule, 
and  immediately  after,  Break  it  if  you're  strong 
enough.     Now,  you  are,  but  I  am  not.' 

Once  more  they  looked  at  each  other,  these  two 
who  had  but  one  desire  between  them — and  who 
knew  it  each  of  each.  And  again  it  was  he  who 
broke  away. 

*  I'm  a  coward,  I'm  false  to  my  own  belief  It's 
love  that  makes  me  so.  Oh,  Heaven,  I  see  so 
well  what  it  would  be  !  And  it  would  be  right, 
mind  you.  These  laws  of  Society  are  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing.  But  you  are  pleased,  for 
reasons,  to  submit.  You  are  deliberate,  you  are 
strong.  It's  the  old  thing  over  again.  Hideous, 
vile,  abominable  servitude  !  But  you  are  pleased 
to  do  it.  You  say  it  is  Destiny,  and  you  may  be 
right.  I  tell  you  once  more,  I  dare  not  say  a 
word  against  it.' 

*  No,  no,'  she  said  hastily  ;  *  don't  say  anything 
to  stop  me.  I  must  go  on  with  it.  I  have 
promised.  He  knows  I  don't  love  him,  and  he 
doesn't  care.' 

Senhouse  pricked  up  his  head.  *  Does  he  love 
you,  do  you  suppose  ?     Do  you  believe  it  ? ' 

She    shrugged    half-heartedly.     '  He    says    so. 


v  HIS  CONFESSION  369 

He — he  seemed  to  when  I  told  him  that  I  was 
going  away/ 

•  When  was  that  ? '  he  asked  her.  She  told  him 
the  whole  story  as  the  reader  knows  it.  Senhouse 
heard  her,  his  head  between  his  hands. 

At  the  end  of  it;  he  looked  out  over  the  valley. 

I  Would  to  God/  he  said,  *  you  and  I  had  never 
met,  Sanchia.' 

Tears  filled  her  eyes.  *  Oh,  why  do  you  say 
that?' 

He  took  her  hands.  'You  know  why.'  There 
was  no  faltering  in  the  look  that  passed  between 
them  now.  They  were  face  to  face  indeed.  He 
got  up,  and  stood  apart  from  her.  She  waited 
miserably  where  she  was. 

'We  may  be  friends  now,  I  believe,'  he  said. 
You'll  let  me  write  to  you  ?     You'll  trust  me  ? ' 

I I  shall  live  in  your  letters,'  she  said.  '  I  read 
nothing  else  but  those  I  have.  They  are  all  the 
help  I  have.'  Then  with  a  cry  she  broke  out, 
'  Oh,  Jack,  what  a  mess  we've  made  of  our 
affairs  ! ' 

He  laughed  bitterly.  'Do  you  know  my 
tale?' 

'  I  guess  it,'  she  said. 

'  I  played  the  rogue,'  he  told  her,  '  to  a  good 
girl,  who  was  as  far  from  my  understanding  as  I 
was  from  hers.  I  thought  that  I  had  got  over — 
it,  you  know,  and  that  she  and  I  could  be  happy 
together.  Absurd,  absurd  !  God  bless  her,  she's 
happy  now.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  meant  to  do 
her  honour — and  directly  I  found  out  what  she 
really  wanted,  I  would  have  given  it  her.     You'll 

2  B 


37o  REST  HARROW  book 

not  believe  that  I  was  such  a  fool  as  to  suppose 
she  could  feel  happy  with  my  ideas  of  wedded 
life  —  but  I  did.  Oh,  Heavens  !  Poor,  dear, 
affectionate,  simple  soul,  she  felt  naked !  She 
shivered  at  her  own  plight,  and  wondered  why 
I'd  been  so  unkind  to  her,  seeing  I  was  by  ordinary 
so  kind.  I  shudder  to  think  what  she  must  have 
gone  through.' 

*  But/  she  said,  anxious  to  save  him,  '  but  she 
knew  what  your  beliefs  were — and  accepted  them. 
You  told  me  so/ 

*  Queen  Mab/  he  said  gravely,  *  she  was  a 
woman,  not  a  fairy.  And  please  to  observe  the 
difference.  She,  poor  dear,  felt  as  if  she  was 
stripped  until  she  married.  You  will  feel  stripped 
when  you  do.  Yet  you  both  do  it  for  the  same 
reason.  She  obeys  the  law  because  she  dare  not 
break  it ;  you  because  you  choose  to  keep  it. 
Despoina !     Despoina  ! ' 

She  laughed,  a  little  awry.  *  You  used  to  call 
me  Artemis.     I'm  not  she  any  more.' 

1  You  are  all  the  goddesses.  You  do  what  you 
please.  Your  mind  is  of  Artemis  ;  you  have  the 
form  of  Demeter,  the  grave-eyed  spirit  of  the 
corn — and  your  gown,  I  observe,  is  blue,  as  hers 
was.  I  see  Hera  in  you,  too,  the  peering,  proud 
lady  of  intolerant  eyelids  ;  and  Kore,  the  pale,  sad 
wife — which  makes  you  your  own  daughter,  my 
dear  ;  and  Gaia,  by  whom  the  Athenians  swore 
when  they  were  serious, — Gaia,  the  Heart  of  the 
Earth.  All  these  you  are  in  turns  ;  but  to  me 
Despoina,  the  Lady  of  the  Country,  whose  secrets 
no  man  knows  but  me.' 


SHE  IS  SURE  371 

She  was  now  by  his  side,  very  pale  and  pure  in 
her  distress.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  as 
she  leaned  to  him.  ■  Dearest,  there  is  one  of  my 
secrets  you  have  not  learned.      May  I  tell  it  you  ? ' 

He  listened  sideways,  not  able  to  look  at  her. 
She  felt  him  tremble.  *  I  think  not — I  think  not. 
You  will  tell  Ingram  first — then  do  as  you  please. 
Don't  ask  me  to  listen.  Haven't  I  told  you  that 
I  see  you  every  night  ? ' 

*  And  I  tell  you  nothing  of  my  secret  ?  * 

*  I  never  ask  you.' 

*  But  do  I  not  tell  you  ?     Can  I  keep  it  ?  ' 

*  You  don't  speak  to  me.  You  never  speak. 
You  look.  Fairies  don't  speak  with  the  tongue. 
They  have  better  ways.' 

I  What  do  you  do  with  me  ? ' 

■  I  follow  you,  over  the  hills.' 

■  And  then  ?  ' 

'  At  dawn  you  leave  me.' 

I I  am  a  ghost  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know.  You  are  Despoina.  You  go 
at  dawn.' 

A  power  was  upon  her,  and  within  her.  She 
put  both  hands  on  his  shoulders.  '  One  night  I 
shall  come — and  not  leave  you.  And  after  that 
you  will  not  follow  me  any  more.  I  shall  follow 
you.'  Perfectly  master  of  himself,  his  eyes  met 
hers  and  held  them. 

*  It  shall  be  as  you  will.' 

She  smiled  confidently.  ■  I  shall  come.  I  know 
that.     But  I  shan't  speak.' 

*  What  need  of  speech  between  you  and  me  ? ' 
She  saw  Chevenix  upon  the  high  ground  above. 


372  REST  HARROW  book 

He  stood  on  the  grass  dykes  of  Hirlebury,  and 
waved  his  hat. 

' 1  must  go  now,'  she  said.  'Good-bye,  my 
dear  one., 

'Good-bye,  Despoina.  In  seven  hours  you 
will  be  here  again.   .  .  .' 

1  It  is  to  be  observed/  says  a  gifted  author, 
1  that  the  laws  of  human  conduct  are  precisely 
made  for  the  conduct  of  this  world  of  Men  in 
which  we  live  and  breed  and  pay  rent.  They  do 
not  affect  the  Kingdom  of  the  Dogs,  nor  that  of 
the  Fishes  ;  by  a  parity  of  reasoning  they  should 
not  be  supposed  to  obtain  in  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven,  in  which  the  Schoolmen  discovered  the 
citizens  dwelling  in  nine  spheres,  apart  from  the 
blessed  Immigrants,  whose  privileges  did  not 
extend  so  near  to  the  Heart  of  the  Presence. 
How  many  realms  there  may  be  between  mankind's 
and  that  ultimate  object  of  Pure  Desire  cannot  at 
present  be  known,  but  it  may  be  affirmed  with 
confidence  that  any  denizen  of  any  one  of  them, 
brought  into  relation  with  human  beings,  would 
act,  and  lawfully  act,  in  ways  which  to  men  would 
seem  harsh,  unconscionable,  without  sanction  or 
convenience.  Such  a  being  might  murder  one  of 
the  ratepayers  of  London,  compound  a  felony,  or 
enter  into  conspiracy  to  depose  the  King  himself, 
and,  being  detected,  very  properly  be  put  under 
restraint,  or  visited  with  chastisement  either 
deterrent  or  vindictive,  or  both.  But  the  true 
inference  from  the  premisses  would  be  that, 
although  duress  or  banishment  from  the  kingdom 


v  HE  JUSTIFIES  HER  373 

might  be  essential,  yet  punishment,  so  called, 
ought  not  to  be  visited  upon  the  offender.  For 
he  or  she  could  not  be  nostri  juris,  and  that  which 
was  abominable  to  us  might  well  be  reasonable  to 
him  or  her,  and,  indeed,  a  fulfilment  of  the  law  of 
his  being.  Punishment,  therefore,  could  not  be 
exemplary,  since  the  person  punished  exemplified 
nothing  to  Mankind ;  and  if  vindictive,  then 
would  be  shocking,  since  that  which  it  vindicated, 
in  the  mind  of  the  victim  either  did  not  exist,  or 
ought  not.  The  ancient  Greek  who  withheld  from 
the  sacrifices  to  Showery  Zeus  because  a  thunder- 
bolt destroyed  his  hayrick,  or  the  Egyptian  who 
manumitted  his  slaves  because  a  god  took  the  life 
of  his  eldest  son,  was  neither  a  pious  nor  a 
reasonable  person. 

*  Beyond  question/  he  continues,  *  there  are 
such  beings  upon  the  earth,  visitors  or  sojourners 
by  chance,  whose  true  commerce  is  elsewhere,  in 
a  state  not  visible  to  us,  nor  to  be  apprehended 
by  most  of  us  ;  whose  relation  with  mankind  is 
temporary.  The  spheres  which  govern  us,  govern 
not  them,  and  their  conduct  is  dictated  by  their 
good  pleasure,  where  ours  goes  after  the  good 
pleasure  of  our  betters.  Thus  a  man  may,  if  he 
can,  take  a  goddess  or  nymph  to  wife,  but  should 
not  be  disconcerted  with  what  she  may  elect  to  do.' 

Sanchia  returned  silently  to  London  by  the 
6.50  from  Salisbury,  and  arrived  at  Charles  Street 
by  half-past  eight,  which  was  Lady  Maria's  usual 
hour.  She  changed  her  dress  hurriedly  and  came 
into  the  drawing-room.    Ingram  was  waiting  there, 


374  REST  HARROW  book 

his  hands  behind  his  back.  He  looked  at  her  as 
she  entered,  but  did  not  greet  her.  Perhaps  he 
saw  his  doom  in  her  eyes. 

*  Had  a  good  day,  Sancie  ?  '  he  asked,  after  a 
while  of  gazing. 

1  Very  good/  she  said. 
4  Saw  your  man  ? ' 
4  Yes,  I  saw  him.* 
4  Mad  as  ever  ? ' 

*  Ah/  she  said,  '  who  is  mad  ? ' 

4  Well,  my  dear,  if  he's  not,  we  are.  That's 
certain.     What  have  you  done  with  Bill  Cheveriix  ? ' 

4  He's  gone  home  to  dress.  He  will  be  here 
directly.' 

4 1  hope,'  said  Ingram,  4  he  played  the  perfect 
squire.'  She  stood  by  the  window  looking  out 
towards  the  west.  Luminous  orange  mist  flared 
up  behind  the  chimney-stacks  in  streamers.  Above 
that,  in  a  sky  faintly  blue,  crimson  clouds,  like 
plumes  of  feather,  floated  without  motion. 

Ingram  called  her  to  him.  4  Sancie,  come  here 
a  minute.  I  want  you.'  She  turned  her  head 
and  looked  at  him,  then  slowly  crossed  the  room. 
She  kept  her  eyes  upon  him,  but  did  not  seem  to 
see  him.  They  were  haunted  eyes.  She  came  in 
front  of  him,  *and  stood,  questing  his  face,  as  if 
she  was  trying  to  see  him  within  it. 

He  continued  to  smile  jauntily,  but  his  lips 
twitched  with  the  strain.  He  put  his  arm  round 
her  shoulder  and  drew  her  towards  him.  4  This 
day  month,  my  girl,'  he  said,  and  kissed  her. 
She  stiffened  at  his  touch.  Her  lips  were  cold, 
and  made  him  shiver.    His  arm  fell  back.     4  Pooh  1 


SHE  STOPS  HALF-WAY  375 

what  do  you  care  ? '  She  stood  in  her  place  before 
him  without  speaking.  If  she  had  looked  at  him, 
she  might  have  stricken  him  blind.  When  Lady- 
Maria  came  in,  she  moved  away,  and  returned  to 
the  window.  The  glow  had  almost  gone  ;  nothing 
remained  but  wan  blue,  white  towards  the  horizon. 
It  was  the  colour  of  death  ;  but  a  single  star  shone 
out  in  it. 

Chevenix  came  in  briskly,  fastening  his  sleeve- 
links.  'Here  is  the  Perfect  Chaperon,  here  is 
he  ! '  he  said,  and  bowed  to  Lady  Maria.  '  My 
dear  Aunt  Wenman,  you've  no  notion  how  hungry 
I  am.  We  saw  Senhouse  teaching  the  hares  their 
catechism.  Afterwards  we  lunched  on  conversa- 
tion and  water.  Ah,  and  salad.  Excellent  salad. 
Then  I  went  goat-stalking,  and  had  a  nap.  Sancie 
and  the  Seer  conversed.     A  great  day.' 

Lady  Maria  took  Ingram's  arm,  Sanchia  that  of 
Chevenix,  and  they  went  downstairs.  Half-way 
down  she  stopped.  Chevenix  looked  at  her.  She 
was  white ;  she  could  hardly  breathe.  '  Good 
God,  Sancie,  what's  the  matter  ?  ' 

She  stared,  gasped,  moved  her  head  about.  '  I 
can't  go  on — I  can't — I  can't.  It's  horrible — it's 
awful  —  I'm  afraid.  Hush — don't  make  a  fuss. 
I'm  going  away.     This  isn't  possible.' 

The  other  couple  were  in  the  dining-room  by 
now.     Chevenix  didn't  know  what  to  do. 

'There's  dinner,  you  know,  Sancie,'  he  said. 
'  That's  an  institution,  eh  ?  You'll  feel  better,  I 
expect.  Keep  your  pecker  up.  I'll  have  a  go  at 
Nevile  for  you.  I  swear  I  will.  Now,  where's 
your  pluck,  my  dear  ? ' 


376  REST  HARROW  bookv 

She  shook  her  head,  struggling  all  the  time  to 
get  her  breath.     *  It's  gone — clean  gone/ 

'  You  want  food,  Sancie  ;  that's  what  you  want. 
Come.  Don't  let's  have  a  commotion.  You 
leave  all  this  to  me.' 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  and  brushed  her 
hand  across  her  face.  Chevenix  was  in  despair. 
Nevile,  from  below,  called  up,  *  What  are  you  two 
conspiring  about  ?  '  Sanchia  shivered,  and  stood 
up. 

1  Go  down  alone,'  she  said.     *  I  can't.' 


Ill 

She  dragged  herself  upstairs,  and  locked  herself  in 
her  room,  stumbled  to  the  window,  caught  at  it  by 
the  sill  and  leaned  out.  Her  skin  burned,  her 
blood  beat  at  her  temples,  and  her  breath  came 
panting  from  her.  Her  white  breasts  ached  with 
the  burden  of  her  strife.  ■  I  was  born  to  live,  not 
die.     Air  !  or  I  shall  fall/ 

It  was  mellow  dusk  by  now,  the  lamps  below 
her  lighted,  and  above  the  chimneys  and  broken 
roof-line,  above  the  trembling  glare  which  meant 
London,  there  were  stars  in  a  violet  sky.  The 
stars  which  looked  on  London,  looked  also  on  the 
dim  grass  wolds,  on  hills  rolling  like  waves,  on 
muffled  woods,  rivers  swift  under  their  banks,  on 
cornlands  stiff  and  silent  in  the  calm,  on  pastures 
and  drowsy  sheep.  But  the  hills  stretched  out  on 
either  side  of  a  valley,  fold  upon  fold,  everlastingly 
the  same.  There  Despoina  walked,  at  the  deepest 
hour  of  the  night.  Even  now  she  was  looked  for 
by  one  who  sat  in  the  valley  and  watched  the  East 
— intent,  hooded,  white,  his  chin  upon  his  knees. 
A  knock  sounded  at  her  door.  She  turned  and 
ran  to  open.  ■  Her  ladyship  have  sent  to  know  if 
you  would  have  something  sent  up,  miss.'  '  No- 
thing, nothing.'     She  sped  back  to  the  window. 

377 


378  REST  HARROW  booky 

At  midnight,  Despoina  should  be  there.  At 
midnight !  In  three  hours  !  It  was  time  to  get 
ready ;  there  wasn't  a  moment  to  lose.  She 
watched  the  night  as  if  she  were  listening  to  it, 
counting  its  pulse.  Then,  kneeling  where  she  was, 
she  began  to  unfasten  her  hair,  running  her  hands 
through  it  as  each  clinging  coil  loosened  and  grew 
light.     So  presently  she  was  curtained  in  her  hair. 

It  drooped  about  her  burning  cheeks  and  veiled 
her  bosom.  She  looked  like  the  Magdalen  in  the 
desert,  facing,  wide-eyed,  the  preacher.  There  she 
knelt  on,  in  a  trance,  waiting  for  the  hour. 

It  struck  ten — eleven. 

She  changed  her  dress  and  put  on  again  the 
blue  cotton  gown  of  the  day's  wearing — but  she 
left  her  hair  loose  about  her  face  and  shoulders, 
and  her  feet  were  bare.  She  looked  at  herself  in 
the  glass.  Her  face  was  white,  her  eyes  were  wide 
and  strange.  She  did  not  know  herself,  smiling 
so  sharply — like  a  goddess  wild  with  a  rapture  not 
known  by  men  and  women.  Fiercer  delights  than 
theirs  she  knew,  the  joy  of  power  mated  with 
its  equal,  coping  fellow  to  fellow.  Consciousness 
of  immortal  bliss  dawned  upon  her  wise  lips,  and 
flickered  in  their  curve. 

1  Despoina  is  here/  she  said,  and  blew  out  the 
light. 


IV 

It  was  intensely  dark  in  the  cup  of  the  hills,  but 
by  the  difference  of  a  tone  it  was  just  possible  to 
make  out  where  the  sky  began.  Looking  closer 
yet,  you  could  guess  at  a  film  of  light,  as  if  the 
rim  of  down  absorbed  and  reflected  a  caught 
radiance  from  the  stars. 

On  a  quiet  night  the  stars  seem  to  burn  more 
fiercely,  and  on  this  night  you  might  have  believed 
they  gave  you  heat.  There  was  no  moon  ;  but 
the  sky  was  illuminated  by  stars.  Jupiter  had 
rays  like  a  sun,  and  Sirius  lay  low  down  and 
glowed,  now  fiery,  now  green.  A  winged  creature, 
coursing  up  the  valley,  would  pass  unnoticed  ;  but 
if  it  struck  suddenly  upwards  for  a  higher  flight, 
above  the  hills,  into  the  upper  air,  you  would  see 
the  light  upon  its  pinions,  and  even  the  glitter  of 
its  watchful  eye. 

There  was  no  wind  ;  the  silence  could  be  felt, 
throbbing  about  you.  It  was  past  the  hour  when 
the  creatures  go  hunting  ;  the  time  when  every 
breathing  thing  submits  to  the  same  power.  Men 
and  women  forgot  each  other  and  their  loves  ; 
foxes  lay  coiled  in  their  earths.  The  shriek  of 
the  field-mouse  startled  you  no  more,  nor  the 
swift  dry  rustle  of  the  grass-snake.      Presently, 

379 


380  REST  HARROW  book 

very  far  away  across  the  hills,  in  some  valley  not 
to  be  known,  a  dog  barked  ;  but  the  sound  just 
marked  the  silence,  and  died  down. 

The  hooded  figure  down  there  sat  like  a  Buddha 
on  his  rock,  motionless,  unwinking,  breathing  deep 
and  slow.  His  hands  clasped  his  shins,  his  chin 
was  on  his  knees  ;  he  pored  into  the  dark.  He 
sat  facing  the  ridgeway  where  it  came  from  the 
East,  and  watched  the  courses  of  the  stars. 

Through  the  window  of  the  hidden  hut  a  faint 
light  glimmered,  and  within  the  open  door  there 
was  to  be  discerned  a  pale  diffusion  of  light.  In 
the  beam  of  this  he  sat,  cowled  in  white,  but  his 
face  was  shadowed.  He  was  like  the  shell  of  a 
man  who  had  died  in  his  thought,  and  stiffened 
in  the  act  of  meditation.  No  relation  between 
him  and  the  rest  of  the  world  could  be  discerned. 
He  was  as  far  from  the  sleepers  as  the  dead  are. 

Yet  within  him  was  the  patience  which  comes 
of  wild  expectancy.  His  mind  was  as  couched 
as  his  body  for  the  moment.  He  had  not  fasted 
for  years  in  the  wilderness,  and  communed  with 
the  spirits  of  the  hidden  creatures  without  learning 
the  secret  of  their  immobility.  To  him  who 
could  speak  with  plants  and  beasts,  with  hills 
and  trees,  the  Night  itself  could  converse.  So 
surely  as  the  crystal  fluid  which  is  the  air  streams 
in  circles  of  waves  about  our  sphere,  so  surely 
ranged  his  sense. 

At  a  certain  moment  of  time,  without  stirring, 
he  changed.  Intensity  of  search  gathered  in  his 
empty  eyes,  and  filled  them  with  power.  He 
remained   for  a  little  time  longer   in  a   state  of 


v  SHE  COMES  BY  NIGHT  381 

tension  so  extreme,  so  strung  to  an  act  that  there 
might  have  streamed  a  music  from  him,  as  from 
the  Memnon  in  the  sands  when  light  and  heat 
thrill  the  fibres  of  the  stone.  His  look  was 
concentrated  upon  a  point  above  him  where,  look 
as  one  might,  one  could  have  seen  nothing  to 
break  the  translucent  veil  of  dark. 

Yet,  after  a  time,  looking  just  there,  one  might 
feel  rather  than  know  a  something  coming.  The 
watcher  certainly  did.  Deep  within  the  shadow  of 
the  cowl  his  eyes  dilated  and  narrowed,  his  lips 
parted,  his  breath  came  quick  and  sharp.  But  he 
did  not  move. 

The  sense  of  a  presence  heightened  ;  one  knew 
it  much  nearer.  By  and  by,  one  could  have  seen 
pale  forms  wavering  in  the  fluid  violet  of  the  night, 
like  marsh -fires  going  and  coming — and  could 
guess  them  one  and  the  same.  Bodily  substance 
could  only  be  inferred.  But  he  who  waited, 
tense  for  the  hour,  knew  that  the  hour  had  come. 

Her  white  face,  made  narrow  by  the  streaming 
curtain  of  her  hair,  her  white  arms  and  feet  were 
luminous  in  that  dark  place,  and  revealed  the 
semblance  of  her  body.  His  cowl  was  thrown 
back  ;  he  had  bowed  his  head  to  his  knees.  She 
stood  over  him,  looking  down  upon  him,  not 
moving.  Her  eyes  were  clear  and  wide,  and  her 
parted  lips  smiled.  The  rise  and  fall  of  her  breasts 
could  be  heard  as  they  stirred  her  gown. 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  head  ; 
she  stooped  to  him  as  he  looked  fearfully  up,  and, 
meeting  his  face,  kissed   him.     No  word  passed 


3 82  REST  HARROW  bookv 

between  them,  but  he  rose  and  stood  by  her,  and 
she  took  his  hand. 

Together,  hand  in  hand,  they  went  deep  into 
the  valley,  and  the  night  hid  them  under  the  stars, 
and  the  silence  swallowed  up  the  sounds  of  their 
bare  footfalls. 


The  philosopher  sat  barefoot  in  the  hollow  of  his 
valley,  and  wrote  diligently  in  a  book.  He  paused, 
pen  in  hand,  and  looked  over  the  folds  of  the  hills 
where  the  haze  of  heat  hung  blue,  and  brown  at 
the  edges.  It  lay  upon  the  hill-tops  like  a  mist. 
The  sky  was  grey,  and  the  land  was  pale,  burned 
to  the  bone.  Heavy  masses  of  trees  in  the  hanging 
wood  showed  lifeless  and  black.  No  bird  sang, 
but  there  were  crickets  in  the  bents,  shrilling 
inconceivably.  The  swoon  of  midsummer  was 
over  all,  and  Sanchia  was  coming. 

He  knew  that  she  was  coming  before  he  saw 
her.  She  came  along  the  edge  of  the  plain  above 
him,  springing  barefoot.  He  saw  her  legs  gleam 
under  her  swirling  skirts.  He  strained  his  eyes  to  her, 
but  could  not  see  her  face  for  the  mist  over  them. 
He  waited  for  her,  watching,  feeling  her  approach. 
She  began  the  descent  of  the  scarp  timidly,  as  if  she 
was  playing  with  the  thought  of  his  bliss,  which  she 
held  daintily  in  her  hands.  ■  Dangerously  beautiful, 
my  Beautiful  One,  art  thou.  Heedless  always  of 
thyself.  Now  a  wind  blows  from  thee  to  me. 
Thy  herald,  O  Thou  that  shrillest  on  the  wind ! ' 

He  heard  her  gay  and  confident  voice.  *  Jack  ! 
383 


384  REST  HARROW 

Jack  !  Where  are  you  ? '  He  rose  and  went  to 
meet  her  ;  she  saw  him,  and  suddenly  faltered  in 
her  stoop.  She  stopped,  poised  as  if  for  flight ; 
he  saw  her  wings  fold  behind  her,  and  lie  quivering 
where  they  touched  each  other. 

Her  heart  urged  her.     '  Go  to  him.' 
She  looked  at  him.     *  I  can't  see  him  perfectly, 
and  can't  trust  myself.' 

Her  heart  cried,  *  I  have  brought  you  so  far.  I 
daren't  stop.'     Still  she  stood  and  flickered. 

Senhouse  mounted  to  meet  her.  Blushful  and 
bashful  she  stood  ;  but  her  eyes,  deeply  watchful, 
never  left  him. 

He,  too,  had  lost  his  tongue.  '  Queen  Mab  ! 
I  knew  that  you  were  coming.' 

Her  eyes  were  timid  and  her  tongue  tied.  She 
was  like  a  rueful  child. 

*  How  did  you  come,  my  dear  ? ' 
' 1  don't  know.' 

i  You  came  last  night  ? ' 

*  Ah,  you  knew  me  ? ' 
<  Well,  Queen  Mab  ? ' 
She  had  nothing  to  say. 

*  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,'  he  asked  her,  *  why 
are  you  come  ? ' 

1 1  can't  tell  you  if  you  don't  know.'  She  looked 
at  him,  and  he  knew. 

*  You  came  to  me — not  because  I  love  you  ? ' 
'  No,  no  !     Not  for  that !  ' 

'  You  are  beautiful  beyond  belief,  Queen  Mab. 
And  you  are  the  soul  of  truth.  My  dear  one,  do 
you  love  me  ? ' 


SHE  COMES  BY  DAY  385 

She  hung  her  head,  and  looked  up  from  under 
her  long  lashes.     He  saw,  not  heard,  her  answer. 

He  encircled  her  with  his  arm,  and  felt  her 
trembling  at  his  side.  '  My  dear/  he  said,  *  I  was 
writing  my  Memoirs.  Now  we'll  burn  the  book, 
for  I  see  that  I  am  now  going  to  be  born.' 

She  looked  up  at  him  laughing.  She  was  the 
colour  of  a  flushed  rose.  *  My  bride/  he  said,  and 
kissed  her  lips.  She  turned  in  his  arm  and  clung 
to  him.  The  storm  swept  surging  over  her ; 
passion  long  pent  made  her  shiver  like  a  blown 
fire.     They  took  their  wild  joy.  .  .  . 

He  led  her  by  her  hand  to  the  shade  of  the 
valley,  where  the  deep  turf  is  hardly  ever  dry.  She 
was  barefoot,  as  he  was,  and  bareheaded.  In  her 
bosom  was  a  spray  of  dog-rose. 

1  You  are  blue-gowned,  like  Despoina/  he  told 
her,  'and,  indeed,  that  is  your  name.  I  am  to 
have  a  fairy  wife.' 

■  Artemis  no  more/  she  laughed. 

I  You  fulfil  all  the  goddesses.  Artemis  was 
your  childhood.  But  let's  be  practical.  What  is 
to  be  done  ? '     She  faltered  her  answer. 

I I  have  found  out  by  myself  what  to  do/  she 
said.     And  then  she  kissed  him.     '  It's  done  now.' 

They  picked  up  their  lives  where  they  had 
dropped  them.  They  were  content  to  wait  for 
the  fulness  of  their  joy.  He  busied  himself  with 
food  for  her  ;  he  cooked,  and  she  helped  him  ; 
they  talked  of  his  affairs  as  if  they  had  always 
been  hers. 

Something   stirred   the  practical   side   of  him. 

2  c 


386  REST  HARROW  book 

She  was  to  see  him  as  near  a  man  of  the  world  as 
it  was  possible  for  him  to  be.  It  might  have  been 
a  shock  to  her,  but  its  simplicity  was  all  his  own. 

*  I  must  see  one  person,  and  you  must  see  one. 
I'll  go  to  your  father,  and  you  shall  tell  Ingram 
what's  going  to  happen.  We  don't  owe  him  much, 
but  there's  that,  I  think.  I've  a  great  idea  of 
treating  the  world  with  civility.  The  one  thing  it 
has  worth  having  is  its  sense  of  manners.  Let  us 
have  manners,  then.  Don't  you  think  so  ? '  He 
held  her  close  as  he  spoke,  and  with  a  strange 
discrepancy  between  sight  and  sound,  looked  at  her 
with  dim  eyes  of  love,  before  which  she  had  to 
close  down  her  own.  '  To  his,  *  Don't  you  think 
so  ? '  she  could  only  murmur  without  breath,  *  You 
mustn't  love  me  so  much — not  yet,  not  yet !  '  but 
he  pressed  her  the  nearer  and  laughed  his  joy  of 
her.  *  What  !  After  eight  years  !  And  if  I 
don't  hold  her  very  close,  Mab,  the  tricksy  sprite, 
may  slip  me.' 

Then  he  returned  to  his  moralisings.  '  You'll 
see  Ingram,  my  blessed  one,  don't  you  think  ? ' 

She  said  gravely,  with  hard  outlook  upon  the 

distant  wold,  *  Yes,  I  must  see  him '  and  then, 

with  a  sudden  turn  to  him  and  a  wondrous  veil  of 
tenderness  upon  her  eyes,  *  You  know  that  I  think 
what  you  think  from  now  onwards.'  Their  lips 
sealed  the  pact. 

He  broke  away  at  last.  c  Practice  !  Practice  ! 
Do  let's  be  practical.  Think  of  this.  My  house 
is  yours  until  we  marry  ;  that  can't  be  for  a  week.' 
A  week !  This  was  Senhouse  practical.  She 
blushed  her  answer. 


v  THE  FAIRY  WIFE  387 

*  What  will  you  do  ?  I  mustn't  turn  you 
out.'  He  opened  his  arms  wide  to  the  airs  of  the 
down. 

%  I  sleep  in  the  open.  The  stars  for  me.  They 
shall  see  you  wedded.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  wait 
upon  you.  But  do  let  us  be  practical.  We  wait 
a  week  ;  we  marry  ;  but  then  what  shall  we  do  ? 
Shall  we  reform  the  world  ?  I  think  we  shall  do 
that  in  spite  of  ourselves  ;  for  if  two  people  dare 
to  be  simple,  there's  no  reason  why  two  million 
shouldn't.'  She  lay  at  peace  considering  ;  her  blue 
eyes,  searching  wonderfully  into  his,  saw  peace  like 
a  crown  of  stars. 

1  I'll  tell  you  what  I  should  like  to  do,'  she  said. 
1  I've  thought  about  it  this  minute.  It  never 
occurred  to  me  before,  but  I  should  like  to  teach 
better  than  anything  in  the  world.' 

He  looked  far  out  to  the  white  rim  of  horizon. 
He  took  her  very  seriously.  '  It's  the  highest 
profession  of  all,  of  course.  Let's  think.  I've 
begun  on  it  already,  oddly  enough.  And  yet,  you 
know,  it's  not  odd.  Nothing  is  after  our  experi- 
ences. .  .  .  We  will  teach.  Woodcraft,  weather- 
craft,  husbandry,  beast-craft,  sky-craft.  I  can  do 
that  much  for  them.  Lit.  hum.,  Greek,  Latin, 
English,  Dante.  History,  shadowy  ;  geography, 
practical.  Tinkering,  carpentering,  planting.  No 
mathematics  ;  I  can't  add  two  to  two.' 

1  But  I  can,'  she  told  him.  *  I'll  teach  the  babies, 
for  we  must  have  babies.' 

His  eyes  flashed  upon  hers  for  one  beating 
second  of  full  interchange.  Then  he  turned  them 
away,  and  scanned  again  the  hazy  hills.     But  hers 


388  REST  HARROW  book 

remained  on  their  watch,  charged  with  their  wistful 
dream. 

6  Our  school/  he  presently  resumed,  *  I  see  it. 
We  teach  first  of  all  Nature's  face  and  the  love  of 
it.  We  lead  their  hungry  mouths  to  Nature's 
breast.  No  books  !  No  books  for  them  to  glue 
their  eyes  upon.  They  shall  learn  by  ear  ;  their 
eyes  have  a  better  book  to  read  in.  Classics  by 
ear  and  by  heart,  eh  ? ' 

She  glowed  at  a  memory.  '  You  wrote  to  me 
about  that.  You  said  that,  before  the  Printing 
Press,  people  used  to  get  poetry  by  heart.' 

He  looked  down  at  her  where  she  lay  at  ease. 
'  "  As  I  have  got  you,"  I  said/  She  dreamed  beneath 
her  flickering  eyelids. 

1  You  had  me  then.  I  didn't  know  it ;  but  you 
had.  And  you  have  me  still.  That's  wonderful. 
But  now  I  have  got  you  !  '  She  lay  awhile  under 
the  spell  of  him  and  the  thought,  and  glowed  and 
blossomed  under  them  until  at  last,  flowering  like 
a  rose,  she  turned  and  hid  her  face  in  his  arm. 
Senhouse,  grave  and  strong,  let  her  lie  where  she 
was  ;  but  he  felt  the  pulsing  of  her  bosom,  and 
was  moved  to  utterance.  Nothing  in  the  eyes  he 
bent  down  to  her  beauty,  and  nothing  in  his  words 
betrayed  the  passion  of  his  heart. 

'  The  loveliest  thing  in  all  the  world  to  me,'  he 
said,  '  is  a  beautiful  thing  bent  in  humility,  stooping 
to  serve.  I  shall  see  you  teaching  your  children. 
They  will  be  at  your  knees,  on  your  knees  ;  you 
will  kiss  them,  and  I  shall  go  mad  with  joy. 
Flowers  and  you  !  Yes,  we'll  have  our  school. 
We'll  teach  people  the  beauty  of  their  own  business 


v  WEATHERS  SUMS  UP  389 

by  means  of  the  most  beautiful  things.     Flowers 
and  you ! ' 

They  talked  long  and  late,  walking  down  the 
valley  to  the  farmstead  for  bread.  On  this,  with 
milk  and  fruit,  they  supped,  after  Sanchia  had 
bathed,  and  clad  herself  in  one  of  his  Moorish  robes. 
Hooded  and  folded  in  this  she  sat  at  meat,  and 
Senhouse,  filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost,  discoursed 
at  large.  The  past  they  took  for  granted  ;  the 
present  was  but  a  golden  frame  for  the  throbbing 
blue  of  the  days  to  come. 

Very  early  on  the  morning  after  the  night  when, 
as  has  been  foretold,  she  was  made  a  wife  under 
the  stars,  Senhouse  came  back  to  her  bedside  and 
put  a  little  flower  into  her  hand.  It  woke  her  out 
of  her  dreams  ;  glozed  and  dewy  from  them  she 
looked  at  it,  and  smiled  at  him  through  it.  In 
grey-green  leafage,  dewy  and  downy,  lay  a  little 
blossom  of  delicate  pink,  chalice-shaped,  with  a  lip 
of  flushed  white.  Watching  him,  she  laid  it  to  her 
lips.  *  My  flower,  our  flower,'  she  said,  and  watch- 
ing him  still  put  it  deep  within  her  bosom.  ■  My 
dear  one,  we  have  earned  it.' 

1 "  Rest  Harrow,"  '  said  Senhouse,  in  a  senten- 
tious mood,  * "  grows  in  any  soil.  .  .  .  The  seed 
may  be  sown  as  soon  as  ripe,  in  warm,  sheltered 
spots  out  of  doors.  .  .  .  It  is  a  British  plant."  So 
says  Weathers,  the  learned  botanist.  I  praise 
Weathers.  And  I  like  his  name/  Then  he  kissed 
her. 


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By  MAURICE   HEWLETT. 

Crown  8vo.     6s.  each. 

THE  FOREST  LOVERS 

A  ROMANCE 

THE  QUEEN'S  QUAIR 

OR,  THE  SIX  YEARS'  TRAGEDY 

RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY 

THE  STOOPING  LADY 

LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

FOND  ADVENTURES 

TALES  OF  THE  YOUTH  OF  THE  WORLD 

NEW  CANTERBURY  TALES 

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LETTERS  TO  SANCHIA  UPON  THINGS 
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EXTRACTED  FROM  THE  CORRESPONDENCE  OF 
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THE   EARLIER   HISTORY  OF   SANCHIA 
PERCIVAL  AND  JOHN  SENHOUSE 

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OPEN    COUNTRY 

A  COMEDY  WITH  A  STING 
By  MAURICE  HEWLETT 

DAILY  TELEGRAPH.—11  Open  Country  is  a  beautiful  bit  of  work, 
a  work  that  is  inspired  through  and  through  with  a  genuine  love  for  what 
is  pure  and  beautiful.  Mr.  Hewlett's  main  figures  have  not  only  a 
wonderful  charm  in  themselves,  but  they  are  noble,  simple,  and  true- 
hearted  creatures.     Sanchia,  the  heroine,  is  a  divine  creation." 

PALL  MALL  GAZETTE.— •"  To  read  such  a  book  as  this  is  tc 
wish  ninety  per  cent  of  current  fiction  at  the  back  of  the  fireplace." 

EVENING  STANDARD.  — "  An  absorbing  story  told  with  great 
skill.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hewlett  shows  insight,  humour,  and  sympathy.  His 
people  are  very  real,  and  he  displays  them  with  the  humour  and  tender- 
ness of  a  parent.  His  problems  are  real  problems,  and  his  story  marches 
on  with  the  directness  and  force  of  a  well-told  story.  But  the  most 
memorable  thing  in  the  book  is  the  collection  of  letters  in  which  Senhouse 
reveals  himself,  his  ideals,  and  his  ideas  to  Sanchia.  They  make  a  '  human 
document '  of  dominant  interest  and  attraction.  .  .  .  Open  Country  is  an 
important  book  and  a  fine  novel.  Beautifully  written,  it  is  a  piece  of 
literature,  and  it  shows  that  Mr.  Hewlett  has  not  stopped  growing." 

WORLD. — "Written  with  great  beauty  and  charm,  and  holds  the 
reader  interested  till  the  last  page." 

T.  P.'s  WEEKLY. — "A  singular  and  suggestive  and  entrancing 
book." 

LITERARY  WORLD.— "Mr.  Hewlett's  last  novel  is  worthy  of  his 
really  great  reputation.  It  is  not  only  that  he  is  fully  alive  to  the  beauty 
of  words,  nor  that  he  has  attained  the  highest  mastery  of  the  technique  of 
his  art,  but  that  his  thought  is  beautiful,  even  as  are  the  words  in  which 
he  has  dressed  it." 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  Ltd.,  LONDON. 


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